UC-NRLF 


. 


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THE    SINGING    SHEPHERD,    AND    OTHER 

POEMS.     i6mo,  £1.00. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 
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THE  SINGING   SHEPHERD 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

ANNIE    FIELDS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

cCfje  UrtitTsi&e  Pre00,  Cambrioge 
1895 


Copyright,  1895, 
Bv  ANNIE   FIELDS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Ca 


E  tu  figliol,  che  per  la  mortal  pondo 

Ancor  giu  tornerai,  apri  la  bocca 

E  non  asconda  quel  ch'  io  non  ascondo. 

PARADISO,  Canto  xxvii. 

Of  song  may  all  my  dwelling  be  full,  for  neither  is  sleep 
more  sweet,  nor  sudden  spring,  nor  are  flowers  more  deli 
cious  to  the  bees,  so  dear  to  me  are  the  Muses. 

THEOCRITUS. 


402188 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

THE   SINGING   SHEPHERD I 

THE    COMFORTER 4 

GIVE 7 

WAITING 9 

CEDAR   MOUNTAIN IO 

THE   FUTURE   SUMMER 12 

THE    FIRST    THANKSGIVING    DAY   AFTER   THE   WAR    .            .  l6 

A  SOLDIER'S  MOTHER ig 

TEN  YEARS  AFTER 2O 

BLUE  SUCCORY 24 

ANDANTE 25 

THE  RETURN 27 

COMPENSATION 29 

DEFIANCE 30 

"SONG,   TO   THE   GODS,   IS   SWEETEST   SACRIFICE"      .           .  31 

CHILDREN 32 

LITTLE  GUINEVER 34 

THE  RUINED  HOME 36 

CHANGING  SKIES 39 

THE  POET'S  CHOICE 40 

ELIZABETH'S  CHAMBER 42 

THE  SONG-SPARROW 44 


VI  CONTENTS. 

HERB   YARROW 45 

A   MEMORY    OF    INTERLACHEN 47 

MIDSUMMER    NOON 48 

UPON    REVISITING  A   GREEN   NOOK              ....  49 

SWEETBRIER 50 

THE    BEE   AND   THE    ROSE "  51 

UNCHANGED 52 

PERDITA 53 

THE   SEVENTH    SLEEPER 54 

SILENCE   AND   SOLITUDE 56 

ON    A    WHARF 58 

ON   WAKING   FROM    A   DREAMLESS   SLEEP           .           .           .  60 

SONG 62 

SPRINGTIME 63 

NEMESIS 64 

IN  MIST  AND  DARK 66 

THE  WING  OF  FAITH            68 

THE  PRODIGAL'S  RETURN 70 

CHRYSALIDES 71 

THE  BIRD  OF  AUTUMN 73 

THE  PATRIOT'S  BIRTHPLACE 74 

THE  MESSAGE 76 

GRETCHEN  IN  EXILE 77 

T0 79 

"  THE    HOUR   YE    KNOW    NOT  " 82 

THE    GIFT   DIVINE 83 

TO   THE   DWELLERS   IN   HOUSES 84 

PREPARATION 86 

A    DREAM    IN    MAY 88 

LET    US   BE    PATIENT 89 

TO    L.    W.   J 9! 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

PARTED 92 

ENDYMION 94 

WINTER    LILACS 95 

THE    CRICKET 98 

THE    OFFERING 99 

TO    ONE    WHOSE    SIGHT   WAS    FAILING              ....  IOO 

THE    GARDEN    OF    FAME IOI 

IN    MEMORIAM 103 

MIDNIGHT 105 

A   FAR    HAVEN 107 

THE    HAUNTS   OF    POESY 109 

THE    FOLDING Ill 

TIDES 112 

THE   SOUL   OF   THE    POET 113 

HOME    . IT4 

ROS   SOLIS 115 

SACRED    PLACES 117 

KYPRIS Il8 

TO   THE    CHILDREN 120 

MORTALITY 121 

PERMANENCE 122 

THE   WARDER 124 

ON   THE   DEATH   OF  A  YOUNG   GIRL            ....  126 

THE    PASSING   OF   TENNYSON 127 

COMATAS 128 

A   FALLING    STAR 130 

THE   POET'S   HOUSE 131 

TO ,  SLEEPING  .           . 134 

THE    MYSTERIES   OF   ELEUSIS 135 

REVERY    OF    ROSAMOND    IN    HER    BOWER      ....  138 

C.   T I40 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

THE   CORONAL 142 

THE    TRAVELER 144 

UPON   A   MASK  OF   AN   UNKNOWN   WOMAN'S   FACE  .  145 

"  STILL    IN    THY    LOVE    I    TRUST  "  .....  147 

THE    RIVER    CHARLES 148 

FLAMMANTIS   M(ENIA   MUNDI 151 

"A    THOUSAND   YEARS    IN    THY   SIGHT"    ....  152 

DEATH,   WHO   ART    THOU  ? 153 


THE   SINGING   SHEPHERD. 

TO   A   POET'S   MEMORY. 

HPHE  shepherd  climbed  the  hill  through  dark  and 
light, 

And  on  and  on  he  went, 

Higher  and  higher  still, 
Seeking  a  pasture  hidden  in  the  height. 

He  followed  by  the  rill, 

He  followed  past  the  rocks, 
And  as  he  went  singing  he  shepherded  his  flocks. 

How  wide  those  upland  pastures  none  e'er  knew ; 

But  over  the  wild  hills 

A  stretch  of  watered  grass, 
Outspreading,  though  half  hidden  from  the  view, 

Invites  that  all  may  pass. 

He  sees  the  weary  way, 

Yet,  while  the  shepherd  sings,  how  brief  the  toilsome 
day! 


J2r«,.-;;        .     THE' SINGING    SHEPHERD. 

Stand  thou  with  me  and  watch  his  eager  feet. 

He  stays  not  for  the  drought, 

Nor  lingers  in  the  shade, 
Save  where  the  clover  and  the  streamlet  meet; 

There,  quiet,  unafraid, 

The  tender  lambs  may  feed 

While  the  calm  noon  gives  rest  to  those  who  are  in 
need. 

Again  I  see  his  figure  cut  the  sky, 

Then  sink,  and  reappear 

Upon  a  loftier  plain, 
Where  far  beneath  his  feet  the  eagles  cry. 

I  cannot  hear  his  strain, 

But  in  a  moving  drift 
I  see  the  snow-white  sheep  follow  the  music's  lift. 

The  climbing  shepherd  long  ago  has  passed, 

Yet  in  the  morning  air, 

For  those  who  listen  well, 
His  song  still  lingers  where  his  feet  made  haste ; 

And  where  his  music  fell 

The  happy  shepherds  know 
His  song  allures  them  yet  beyond  the  fields  of  snow. 


THE    SINGING    SHEPHERD.  3 

O  climbing  shepherd,  I  would  follow  thee ! 

Over  the  dizzy  heights, 

Beyond  the  lonely  pass, 
Thy  piping  leads ;  the  path  I  always  see  ! 

I  see  thee  not,  alas ! 

Because  of  death's  rude  shock ; 

Yet  thou,  dear  shepherd,  still  art  shepherding  thy 
flock. 


THE   COMFORTER. 


THE   COMFORTER. 

TV  TY  heart  is  searching  for  thee, 

And  lost  in  longing  for  thy  voice  ! 
Voice  that  lies  deeper  than  the  permanent  sea, 
Deeper  than  thought, 
Deeper  than  my  own  life. 

Behold  the  child, 

With  yellow  locks  and  aspect  wild, 

Gazing  on  nought ; 

With  hands  hung  listless, 

And  heart  at  strife, 

Waiting,  a  young  lost  Israelite, 

For  angels'  food ! 

We  are  all  children  lost,  of  one  great  race, 

Sighing  for  light, 

Whom  thou  alone  canst  bless ; 


THE    COMFORTER. 

Give  us  manna,  the  promised  good ! 

Show  us  thy  face  ! 

Else  how  should  joy  survive 

The  ebbing  tide, 

And  hear  the  burden  of  the  desert  sea  ? 

Where  art  thou,  Guide  ? 

Ah  !  where  dost  thou  abide  ? 

Within  what  heart  or  on  what  wave  dost  live  ? 

Must  man  forever  hunger  till  beyond  his  reach 

Splendors  of  speech 

Fall  on  his  untaught  ear  ? 

Give  me  new  light ! 

Give  me  new  day ! 

"  Who  are  ye 

Thus  crying  for  the  light  of  a  new  day  ? 
If  wonders  press  on  thee, 
Delay  thy  feet,  —  delay ! 
But  now 

Fear  clouds  thy  brow, 
And  seems  to  hunt  thee  through  the  wood. 
Listen,  delay ! 
I,  the  comforter,  am  near ; 


THE    COMFORTER. 

I  am  the  loveliness  of  the  earth ; 

I  am  the  spring's  birth ; 

I  sing  on  the  solemn  shore  ; 

I  am  the  presence  at  the  dark,  low  door." 


GIVE. 


GIVE. 

"  The  vine  shall  give  her  fruit,  and  the  ground  shall  give  her  increase, 
and  the  heavens  shall  give  their  dew." 


E  fire  of  freedom  burns, 

Her  flame  shall  reach  the  heaven  ; 
Heap  up  the  sacred  urns, 
And  life  for  life  be  given  ! 

Woman  of  nerve  and  thought, 
Bring  in  the  urn  your  power ! 
By  you  is  manhood  taught 
To  meet  the  supreme  hour. 

Come  with  your  sunlit  life, 
Maiden  of  gentle  eye  ! 
Bring  to  the  gloom  of  strife 
Light  by  which  heroes  die. 


GIVE. 

Give,  rich  men,  proud  and  free, 
Your  children's  costliest  gem  ! 
For  Liberty  shall  be 
Your  heritage  to  them. 

0  friend  with  heavy  urn, 
What  offering  bear  you  on  ? 
The  figure  did  not  turn : 

1  heard  a  voice,  "  My  son." 
1862. 


WAITING. 


WAITING. 

T^vROP,  falling  fruits  and  crisped  leaves, 

Ye  ring  a  note  of  joy  for  me : 
Through  the  rough  wind  my  soul  sails  free, 
High  over  waves  that  Autumn  heaves. 

I  watch  the  crimson  maple-boughs  ; 
I  know  by  heart  each  burning  leaf, 
Yet  would  that  like  a  barren  reef 
Stripped  to  the  breeze  those  arms  uprose ! 

Under  the  flowers  my  soldier  lies  ! 
Yet  come,  thou  chilling  pall  of  snow, 
Lest  he  should  hear  who  sleeps  below 
How,  yet  in  bonds,  the  captive  cries ! 

Fade  swiftly  then,  thou  lingering  year, 
Test  with  the  storms  our  eager  powers  ; 
For  chains  are  broken  with  the  hours, 
And  Freedom  waits  upon  thy  bier. 
December,  1862. 


10  CEDAR    MOUNTAIN. 


CEDAR   MOUNTAIN. 

~D  ING  the  bells,  nor  ring  them  slowly; 

Toll  them  not,  —the  day  is  holy  ! 
Golden-flooded  noon  is  poured 
In  grand  libation  to  the  Lord. 

No  mourning  mothers  come  to-day 
Whose  hopeless  eyes  forget  to  pray  ; 
They  each  hold  high  the  o'erflowing  urn, 
And  bravely  to  God's  altar  turn. 

Ye  limners  of  the  ancient  saint ! 
To-day  another  virgin  paint ; 
Where  with  the  lily  once  she  stood 
Show  now  the  new  beatitude. 

To-day  a  mother  crowned  with  pain, 
Of  silver  beauty  beyond  stain, 


CEDAR    MOUNTAIN.  II 

Clasping  a  flower  for  our  land, 
A  sheathed  lily  in  her  hand. 

Each  pointed  leaf,  with  sword-like  strength, 
Guarding  the  flower  throughout  its  length ; 
Each  sword  has  won  a  sweet  release 
To  the  flower  of  beauty  and  of  peace. 

Ring  the  bells,  nor  ring  them  slowly, 
To  the  Lord  the  day  is  holy ; 
To  the  young  dead  we  consecrate 
These  lives  that  now  we  dedicate. 
1862. 


12  THE    FUTURE    SUMMER. 


THE    FUTURE    SUMMER. 

OUMMER  in  all !  deep  summer  in  the  pines, 

And  summer  in  the  music  on  the  sands, 
And  summer  where  the  sea-flowers  rise  and  fall 
About  the  gloomy  foreheads  of  stern  rocks. 

Can  mockery  be  hidden  in  such  guise  ! 

To  peep,  like  sunlight,  behind  shifting  leaves, 

And  dye  the  purple  berries  of  the  field, 

Or  gleam  like  moonlight  upon  juniper, 

Or  wear  the  gems  outshining  jeweled  pride  ! 

Can  mockery  do  this,  and  we  endure 

In  Nature's  rounded  palace  of  the  world  ? 

Where,  then,  has  fled  the  summer's  wonted  peace  ? 
Sweeter  than  breath  borne  on  the  scented  seas 
Over  fresh  fields  and  brought  to  weary  shores, 
She  should  await  the  season's  worshiper ; 


THE    FUTURE    SUMMER.  13 

But  as  a  star  shines  on  the  daisy's  eye, 
So  shines  our  conscience  on  the  face  of  peace, 
And  lends  a  calmer  lustre  with  the  dew ; 
When  that  star  dims,  the  paling  floweret  fades ! 

Yet  there  be  those  who  watch  a  serpent  crawl, 
And,  blackening,  steep  within  a  blossom's  heart, 
Who  will  not  slay,  but  call  their  gazing  "  peace." 
Even  thus  within  the  bosom  of  our  land 
Creeps,  serpent-like,  Sedition,  and  hath  gnawed 
In  silence  while  a  timid  crowd  stood  still. 

O  suffering  land  !  O  dear,  long-suffering  land, 
Slay  thou  the  serpent  ere  he  sting  the  core ! 
Take  thou  our  houses  and  amenities  ; 
Take  thou  the  hand  that  parting  clings  to  ours, 
And,  going,  bears  our  heart  into  the  fight ; 
Take  thou,  but  slay  the  serpent  ere  he  kill ! 

Now,  as  a  lonely  watcher  on  the  strand, 
Hemmed  by  the  mist  and  the  quick-coming  waves, 
Hears  but  one  voice,  the  voice  of  warning  bell, 
That  solemn  speaks,  "  Beware  the  jaws  of  death !  " 


14  THE   FUTURE   SUMMER. 

Death  on  the  sea  and  warning  on  the  strand !  — 
Such  is  our  life,  while  summer,  mocking,  broods. 

O  mighty  heart !  O  brave,  heroic  soul ! 
Hid  in  the  dim  mist  of  the  things  that  be, 
We  call  thee  up  to  fill  the  highest  place  ! 
Whether  to  till  thy  corn  and  give  the  tithe, 
Whether  to  grope,  a  picket,  in  the  dark, 
Or,  having  nobly  served,  to  be  cast  down, 
And,  unregarded,  passed  by  meaner  feet, 
Or,  happier  thou,  to  snatch  the  fadeless  crown, 
And  walk  in  youth  and  beauty  to  God's  rest,  — 
The  purpose  makes  the  hero,  meet  thy  doom  ! 

We  call  to  thee,  where'er  thy  pillowed  head 
Rests  lonely  for  the  brother  who  has  gone, 
To  fix  thy  gaze  on  freedom's  chrysolite, 
Which  rueful  fate  can  neither  crack  nor  mar ; 
And,  hand  in  hand  indissolubly  bound 
To  thy  next  fellow,  hand  and  purpose  one, 
Stretch  thus,  a  living  wall,  from  the  rock  coast 
Home  to  our  ripe  and  yellow  heart  of  the  West, 
Impenetrable  union  triumphing. 


THE    FUTURE    SUMMER.  15 

The  solemn  autumn  comes,  the  gathering-time ! 
Stand  we  now  ripe,  a  harvest  for  the  right ! 
That,  when  fair  summer  shall  return  to  earth, 
Peace  may  inhabit  all  her  sacred  ways ; 
Lap  in  the  waves  upon  melodious  sands, 
And  linger  in  the  swaying  of  the  corn, 
Or  sit  with  clouds  upon  the  ambient  skies,  — 
Summer  and  peace  brood  on  the  grassy  knolls 
Where  twilight  glimmers  over  the  calm  dead, 
While  clustered  children  chant  heroic  tales. 
October,  1864. 


l6      FIRST   THANKSGIVING    DAY   AFTER   THE    WAR. 


THE  FIRST  THANKSGIVING  DAY  AFTER 
THE  WAR. 

TTOLY  silence  of  Thanksgiving  ! 

•*•     With  the  presence  of  the  living, 
With  the  peace  the  season  takes, 
Falling  with  the  falling  snowflakes, 
After  the  harrowing  dissonance 
And  sorrowing  of  wars  ! 

Where  the  spruces  droop  their  arms 
Heavy  with  deep  weight  of  snow, 
Lured  and  beckoned  by  their  charms 
Through  a  winding  path  we  go, 
Leading  to  the  cottage  stoop 
Where  awaits  warm  salutation 
From  the  merry  household  group, 
Shining  with  young  love's  elation. 
The  crackling  fire,  the  merry  dance, 
And  the  stories  of  adventure 


FIRST   THANKSGIVING    DAY   AFTER    THE   WAR.       17 

And  what  patriots  endure ; 

And  the  lady  brings  a  chart, 

Worn  and  crumpled  in  the  service, 

Spreads  it  on  her  silken  dress, 

While  her  slender  fingers  press 

Reverently  each  warworn  part 

As  to  heal  some  piteous  crevice ; 

Then,  brown  curls  to  brown  curls  bent 

In  lovers'  measureless  content, 

He  guides  her  hand  (but  does  not  speak) 

From  Baltimore  to  Cedar  Creek. 

Here  was  the  end,  brave  heart ! 

His  words  burst  forth  like  gusts  of  rain 

Washing  across  an  April  sky, 

Bringing  a  penetrating  pain. 

But  —  young  was  their  life's  ecstasy, 

And  death  in  friendship  hath  no  part, 

And  noble  memories  will  bless 

And  crown  their  happiness  : 

Therefore  they  spoke  as  he  were  here  once  more, 

Nor  marked  a  silent  vision  cross  the  floor,  — 

The  vision  of  a  woman  kneeling, 

Her  baby's  little  arms,  appealing, 


1 8      FIRST  THANKSGIVING   DAY   AFTER  THE   WAR. 

Stretched  toward  that  ragged  sheet 
Which  knowledge  made  complete, 
Watching  with  look  of  rapt  beatitude 
Those  others  in  the  selfsame  attitude 
She  and  her  sleeping  lover  knew 
Before  his  spirit  flew. 

The  bride  arose  to  fold  the  page 

Grown  sacred  with  the  look  of  age ; 

The  winds  were  gathering ;  through  the  storm 

Again  I  saw  the  flitting  form 

Watch  where  the  merry  voices  rise, 

Seeing  calm  joy  in  married  eyes, 

And  then  —  a  marriage  chamber  in  a  tent  — 

The  past  with  a  high  future  blent. 

Saw  the  Norway  spruces  bending, 
Saw  their  snowy  arms  extending 
Over  a  wind-strewn  bed 
Where  lay  her  valiant  dead, 

And  saw  her  turn  with  the  disconsolate  who  weep 
Over  the  form  asleep. 
1865. 


A  SOLDIER'S  MOTHER.  19 


A  SOLDIER'S    MOTHER. 

M.   L.   P. 

TTER  words  the  hope  of  nations  crown, 

And  stir  brave  boyhood  with  their  leaven, 

Her  patriot  fire 

Wakes  noble  ire, 

She  wastes  in  gracious  deeds,  like  one 
Whose  heart  is  on  the  fields  of  heaven. 


Far  on  some  viewless  height  her  eyes 
Behold  another  scene  than  ours  ; 

She  drops  no  tear, 

She  feels  no  fear, 
But  beckons  weeping  mothers  rise 
And  walk  with  her  in  unseen  bowers. 
1864. 


20  TEN    YEARS    AFTER. 


TEN   YEARS   AFTER. 

EASTER   SUNDAY. 

r  I  "*HE  Sunday  morn  was  fresh  and  clear, 

The  Sunday  bells  rang  cheerly  out, 
The  old  New  England  church  was  near 
And  welcomed  faith  or  doubt. 

There  was  room  even  for  such  as  I 
Who  took  the  hospitable  grace 
Of  one  who  lonely  sat,  hard  by 
The  door,  and  gave  me  place. 

She  was  a  matron  in  life's  prime, 
Sitting  alone  in  her  high-backed  pew, 
Daughter  of  old  New  England  time, 
Mother  of  ages  new. 


TEN    YEARS   AFTER.  21 

She  gave  —  't  was  all  she  had  to  give  !  — 
Her  last  young  boy  for  her  country's  good, 
And  now  she  would  as  cheerful  live 
As  with  her  darling  brood. 

A  crown  for  his  young  life  is  won, 
Wrought  out  of  slavery's  broken  chain ; 
His  few  glad  days  in  glory  done, 
Set  without  cloud  or  stain. 

His  work  unfinished  is  her  work ; 
His  fame  invested  is  his  form ; 
No  solitude  can  ever  lurk 
Where  love  grows  ever  warm. 

Therefore  she  sits  within  her  pew, 
And  views  her  baby's  lowly  seat, 
And  where,  as  older  still  he  grew, 
He  chafed  his  restless  feet. 

Rough  figures  scratched  with  tiny  hands 
Remain  upon  the  high  pew  walls, 
Soldiers  perhaps  in  uncouth  bands, 
Or  wandering  childish  scrawls. 


22  TEN    YEARS   AFTER. 

And  still  she  sits  and  notes  them  all, 
Dear  relics  of  her  vanished  day ; 
Nor  do  we  see  her  tear-drops  fall, 
Nor  watch  them  wiped  away. 

She  looks  upon  the  joy  that  was, 
As  herald  of  the  joy  to  be ; 
She  weighs  the  glory  that  he  has 
Against  the  things  we  see,  — 

And  fills  the  vessel  of  the  state 
With  all  she  owns  of  wealth  and  hope, 
Patient,  content  to  work  and  wait 
Through  life's  appointed  scope,  — 

Until,  until,  she  knows  not  where 
Nor  how,  but  once  again  she  sees 
Her  dear  ones,  and  may  then  declare 
Upon  her  bended  knees  :  — 

"  Those  few  short  days  were  not  in  vain  : 
My  soldier  died  upon  the  field, 
But  through  earth's  maze  of  loss  and  gain 
I  bravely  bore  his  shield." 


TEN   YEARS   AFTER.  23 

And  thus  she  sits  within  her  pew 
Calmly,  nor  lets  the  tear-drops  fall, 
While  we  with  brimming  eyelids  view 
Those  tracings  on  the  wall. 
1863-1873. 


24  BLUE   SUCCORY. 


BLUE    SUCCORY. 

IN   WAR   TIME. 

/~\NLY  the  dusty  common  road, 
^~^^     The  glaring  weary  heat ; 
Only  a  man  with  a  soldier's  load, 
And  the  sound  of  tired  feet. 

Only  the  lonely  creaking  hum 

Of  the  cicada's  song  ; 
And  a  broken  fence  where  tall  weeds  come 

With  spiked  fingers  strong. 

Only  a  drop  of  the  heaven's  blue 

Left  in  a  wayside  cup,  — 
A  cup  of  joy  for  the  plodding  few 

And  eyes  that  look  not  up. 

Only  a  weed  to  the  passer-by, 

Growing  among  the  rest ; 
Yet  something  clear  as  the  light  of  the  sky 

It  lodges  in  my  breast. 


ANDANTE.  25 


ANDANTE. 
BEETHOVEN'S  SIXTH  SYMPHONY. 

OOUNDING  above  the  warring  of  the  years, 
Over  their  stretch  of  toil  and  pain  and  fears, 
Comes  the  well-loved  refrain, 
The  ancient  voice  again. 

Sweeter  than  when,  beside  the  river's  marge, 
We  lay  and  watched,  like  innocence  at  large, 

The  changeful  waters  flow, 

Speaks  this  brave  music  now. 

Tender  as  sunlight  upon  childhood's  head, 
Serene  as  moonlight  upon  childhood's  bed, 

Comes  the  remembered  power 

Of  that  long-vanished  hour. 

The  river  ran  with  merry  voice  and  low, 
The  gentle  ripples  rippling  far  below, 


26  ANDANTE. 

Talked  with  no  idle  voice, 
Though  idling  were  their  choice. 

Now  through  the  tumult  and  the  pride  of  life, 
Gentler,  yet  firmly  soothing  all  its  strife, 
Nature  draws  near  once  more 
And  knocks  at  the  world's  door : 

She  walks  within  her  wild  harmonious  maze, 
Weaving  her  melodies  from  doubt  and  haze, 
And  leaves  us  freed  from  care 
Like  children  standing  there. 


THE   RETURN. 


THE    RETURN. 

r~pHE  bright  sea  washed  beneath  her  feet, 

As  it  had  done  of  yore, 
The  well-remembered  odor  sweet 
Came  through  her  opening  door. 

Again  the  grass  his  ripened  head 
Bowed  where  her  raiment  swept ; 

Again  the  fog-bell  told  of  dread, 
And  all  the  landscape  wept. 

Again  beside  the  woodland  bars 

She  found  the  wilding  rose, 
With  petals  fine  and  heart  of  stars,  — 

The  flower  our  childhood  knows. 

And  there,  before  that  blossom  small, 

By  its  young  face  beguiled, 
The  woman  saw  her  burden  fall, 

And  stood  a  little  child. 


28  THE    RETURN. 

She  knew  no  more  the  weight  of  love, 
No  more  the  weight  of  grief ; 

So  could  the  simple  wild-rose  move 
And  bring  her  heart  relief. 

She  asked  not  where  her  love  was  gone, 
Nor  where  her  grief  was  fled, 

But  stood  as  at  the  great  white  throne, 
Unmindful  of  things  dead. 


COMPENSATION.  29 


COMPENSATION. 

TN  the  strength  of  the  endeavor, 
In  the  temper  of  the  giver, 

In  the  loving  of  the  lover, 

Lies  the  hidden  recompense. 

In  the  sowing  of  the  sower, 
In  the  fleeting  of  the  flower, 
In  the  fading  of  each  hour, 
Lurks  eternal  recompense. 


30  DEFIANCE. 


DEFIANCE. 

/^LOTHO,  Lachesis,  Atropos  ! 

All  your  gain  is  not  my  loss  ; 
Spin  your  black  threads  if  you  will ; 
Twist  them,  turn,  with  all  your  skill ; 
Hold !  there  's  one  you  cannot  sever ! 
One  bright  thread  shall  last  forever. 


You  are  defied,  you,  Atropos  ! 
Draw  your  glittering  shears  across,  — 
One  still  mocks  your  cruel  art ! 
From  the  fibres  of  my  heart 
Did  I  spin  the  shining  thread 
That  will  live  when  you  are  dead. 

Fate,  but  hark  !  one  thing  I  '11  teach : 
There  are  wonders  past  your  reach, 
Of  the  heart  and  of  the  soul : 
Woman's  love  's  past  your  control ! 
These  are  not  threads  of  your  spinning, 
No,  nor  shall  be  of  your  winning. 


"SONG,    TO   THE   GODS."  31 


"SONG,    TO     THE     GODS,    IS     SWEETEST 
SACRIFICE." 

T>  EHOLD  another  singer  !  "  Criton  said, 

And  sneered,  and  in  his  sneering  turned  the 

leaf: 
"Who   reads  the  poets  now?     They  are  past  and 

dead, 

Give  me  for  their  vain  work  unrhymed  relief." 
A  laugh  went  round.     Meanwhile  the  last  ripe  sheaf 
Of  corn  was  garnered,  and  the  summer  birds 
Stilled  their  dear  notes,  while  autumn's  voice  of  grief 
Rang  through  the  fields,  and  wept  the  gathered  herds. 

Then  in  despair  men  murmured  :  "  Is  this  all,  — 
To  fade  and  die  within  this  narrow  ring  ? 
Where  are  the  singers,  with  their  hearts  aflame, 
To  tell  again  what  those  of  old  let  fall,  — 
How  to  decaying  worlds  fresh  promise  came, 
And  how  our  angels  in  the  night-time  sing." 


32  CHILDREN. 


CHILDREN. 

"\  T  7"E  cannot  know  the  child's  deep  heart, 

We  cannot  learn  his  grief ; 
Though  childhood  still  is  dear  to  man, 
And  the  spent  time  so  brief. 

Who  knew  the  hours  of  silent  joy 
In  our  green  garden  plot, 
Those  mornings  with  the  hollyhocks, 
Whose  beauty  fadeth  not !  — 

Days  when  the  hidden  steps  of  spring 
Were  heard,  not  understood  ; 
When  music  from  afar  swept  in, 
Born  of  her  dreamful  mood,  — 

Seasons  when  young  Love  hid  his  face 
Through  joyless,  restless  days  ; 
The  winter  of  the  growing  soul, 
When  summer  but  delays. 


CHILDREN.  33 

Who  knew  how  sad  the  darksome  path, 
The  hour  of  grief  how  long  ! 
Nor  how  there  came  the  strong  bright  day, 
And  through  the  mist  a  song. 


34  LITTLE   GUINEVER. 


LITTLE   GUINEVER. 

When  Queen  Guinever  of  Britain  was  a  little  wench." 

LOVE'S  LABOR  's  LOST. 

WIFT  across  the  palace  floor 
Flashed  her  tiny  willful  feet ; 
"  Playfellow,  I  will  no  more, 

Now  I  must  my  task  complete." 

Arthur  kissed  her  childish  hand, 
Sighed  to  think  her  task  severe, 

Walked  forth  in  the  garden  land, 
Lonely  till  she  reappear. 

She  has  sought  her  latticed  room, 

Overlooking  faery  seas, 
Called  Launcelot  from  a  bowery  gloom 

To  feast  of  milk  and  honey  of  bees. 

"  Had  we  bid  Prince  Arthur  too, 
He  had  shaken  his  grave  head, 


LITTLE   GUINEVER.  35 

Saying,  *  My  holidays  are  few  ! '  — 

May  queens  not  have  their  will  ?  "  she  said. 

Thus  she  passed  the  merry  day, 

Thus  her  women  spake  and  smiled  : 
"  All  we  see  we  need  not  say, 
For  Guinever  is  but  a  child." 


36  THE    RUINED    HOME. 


THE    RUINED    HOME. 

A  T  nightfall,  coming  from  the  wood, 

I  crossed  the  hilltop's  gloomy  brow, 
Where  one  unsheltered  farmhouse  stood, 
Neglected,  dark,  and  low. 


No  lamp  announced  a  breathing  soul; 

The  chimney's  blue,  reluctant  thread 
Alone  betrayed  a  living  coal 

Of  life,  all  else  seemed  dead. 

At  length,  observing  curiously 
And  gazing  back  as  on  I  went, 

One  little  pale  face  I  could  see 
Close  to  the  window  bent. 

And  in  my  mind  I  saw  all  night 

That  child's  face  watching  by  the  pane  ; 

Once  more  I  passed  that  weary  height 
And  lingered  there  again. 


THE    RUINED    HOME.  37 

At  dawn  I  rose,  and,  walking  forth, 
Met  one  who  toiled  upon  the  road, 

Morning  or  evening  nothing  loth 
With  talk  to  ease  his  load. 

He  told  me  that  he  knew  when  first 
The  sunshine  played  across  that  floor, 

And  the  bright  buds  of  spring-time  burst 
Around  that  household  door,  — 

And  gayer  than  the  buds  of  spring, 
More  musical  than  summer  birds, 

The  songs  a  happy  wife  would  sing 
'Mid  lowing  of  the  herds. 

Swift  are  the  steps  that  lead  to  ill, 
Friendly  the  sparkling  cup  appears, 

And  idlers  share  the  bowl  until 
The  scene  must  end  in  tears. 

Hour  after  hour  his  passion  grew ; 

Quickly  the  power  of  will  can  cease ; 
Haunted  by  dreadful  shapes,  he  knew 

No  more  the  days  of  peace. 


38  THE    RUINED    HOME. 

She  watched  him  till  the  arms  of  death 
Laid  her  upon  the  earth's  calm  breast. 

May  not  her  love  and  prayers  have  breath 
To  bring  him  into  rest  ? 

Now  day  and  night  the  little  maid, 
His  only  child,  scarce  ten  years  old, 

Still  watches,  never  once  afraid 
Of  darkness  nor  of  cold. 


The  morning  sun  was  brave  and  gay 
And  birds  were  filling  earth  with  song, 

While  yet  my  heart  pursued  that  way, 
That  rocky  hill  of  wrong. 

I  saw  the  child  beside  the  pane 
Still  gazing  on  the  clouded  sky  ; 

Her  solitude  was  mine  again, 
And  mine  her  agony. 


CHANGING   SKIES.  39 


CHANGING   SKIES. 


T  TPON  the  noontide's  perfect  blue 

There  sleeps  a  perfect  cloud ; 
The  lily's  faultless  form  is  hid 
Within  her  leafy  shroud. 


The  cloud  lets  fall  her  silver  wing 
And  fades  the  perfect  blue  ; 
The  lily's  form  betrays  a  fault  — 
Alas,  love  !  art  thou  true  ? 


40  THE  POET'S  CHOICE. 


THE  POET'S    CHOICE. 

'T^O  dwell  all  day  upon  the  mountain  height, 
And  ride  all  night  upon  the  rifted  cloud ; 
To  watch  the  earliest  arrow  in  his  flight 
Morning  despatches  from  her  misty  shroud; 
To  lie  at  evening  on  the  lonely  sands, 
Hearing  the  waters  tell  mysterious  tales 
Of  whispering  lovers  upon  unknown  strands, 
And  suns  that  die  to  gladden  rosier  sails ; 
To  wander  in  the  midnight  of  the  wood, 
And  hear  the  timid  cuckoo  cry  afar ; 
To  watch  the  rising  of  June's  flowery  flood, 
And  Hesper  leading  evening  with  one  star,  — 

These  are  the  poet's  joy,  the  singer's  food ; 
Yet  often  from  the  mighty  top  of  song, 
Where,  clothed  with  solitude,  his  feet  have  stood, 
He  gazes  wistful  from  the  awful  throng 


THE  POET'S  CHOICE.  41 

Of  shapes  imagination  hath  made  his 
Down  to  the  fireside  and  the  homely  bliss 
Of  one  returning  and  the  greeting  kiss. 

The  throbbing  stars  return,  why  should  not  he  ? 
Why  ever  float  upon  the  restless  sea? 
Open  thy  heart,  love,  let  me  fly  to  thee ! 


42  ELIZABETH'S  CHAMBER. 


ELIZABETH'S   CHAMBER. 

AT    AMESBURY. 

T  ENTERED  her  half-opened  door ; 

A  welcome  like  the  voice  of  seas, 
When  overland  their  mellow  roar 

Comes  homeward  on  the  summer  breeze. 
Gave  greeting  to  my  listening  heart. 

In  vain  I  crossed  the  echoing  room  : 
The  voice  was  still  a  voice  apart, 

Though  memories  ripened  into  bloom, 
Touched  by  the  sacred  presence  there, 

Pervading  perishable  things,  — 
A  grace  that  filled  the  common  air 

With  sense  of  overshadowing  wings. 
The  pendant  blossoms  fading  breathed 

Into  new  life  to  speak  of  her ; 
The  gathered  autumn  boughs  hung  wreathed 

To  welcome  their  lost  worshiper. 
But  still  she  came  not ;  silence  dwelt 

And  solitude  where  she  abode. 


ELIZABETH'S  CHAMBER.  43 

Their  dumb  lips  told  the  truth  I  felt : 

Though  lonely  be  the  place  she  trod, 
Wide  is  her  radiant  chamber  now ; 

Her  spirit  gilds  the  morning  cloud, 
And  lights  the  day  until  his  brow 

Sinks  in  the  ocean's  purpling  shroud  ; 
And  in  the  heart  of  love  a  bed 

Is  laid  whereon  her  sleep  is  sweet; 
There  lives  she  whom  the  world  calls  dead, 

There  we  may  kiss  her  gracious  feet. 


44  THE    SONG-SPARROW. 


THE    SONG-SPARROW. 

/""*AN  you  hear  the  sparrow  in  the  lane 

Singing  above  the  graves  ?  she  said. 
He  knows  my  gladness,  he  knows  my  pain, 
Though  spring  be  over  and  summer  be  dead. 


His  note  hath  a  chime  all  cannot  hear, 
And  none  can  love  him  better  than  I ; 

For  he  sings  to  me  when  the  land  is  drear, 
And  makes  it  cheerful  even  to  die. 

'T  is  beautiful  on  this  odorous  morn, 

When  grasses  are  waving  in  every  wind, 

To  know  my  bird  is  not  forlorn, 

That  summer  to  him  is  also  kind,  — 

But  sweeter,  when  grasses  no  longer  stir 

And  every  lilac-leaf  is  shed, 
To  know  that  my  voiceful  worshiper 

Is  singing  above  my  voiceless  dead. 


HERB    YARROW. 


45 


HERB   YARROW. 

T^VERYWHERE  the  Yarrow  grows! 

Here  and  there  the  thistle  blows, 
Here  and  there  the  barberries, 
By  the  brook  the  plumy  fern  ; 
We  know  where  the  lily  is, 
Where  the  dear  wild  roses  burn: 
But  the  Yarrow  everywhere 
Wanders  on  the  common  air. 

No  one  need  to  search  for  thee  : 
Even  now  thy  leaf  I  see 
Peeping  o'er  my  opened  book, 
Throwing  so  fair  a  shadow  down, 
So  perfect,  that  I  can  but  look, 
And,  looking,  find  new  wonder  crown 
The  bliss  of  beauty  which  before 
Taught  my  spirit  to  adore. 


46  HERB    YARROW. 

In  thy  bitter  odors  blent 

Health  we  find,  not  discontent ; 

In  thy  name  a  tender  grief 

For  that  love  once  drowned  in  Yarrow, 

Stream  that  never  gave  relief 

To  the  faithful  "  winsome  marrow.  " 

Bitter  Yarrow  !    Flowing  Yarrow  ! 

Still  lament  thy  winsome  marrow  ! 

Emblem  of  our  equal  land, 
Where  men  and  women  helpful  stand, 
And  love  and  labor,  high  and  low ; 
Type  of  the  low  !     Thou  lovely  plant ! 
Teach  the  proud-hearted  how  to  know 
The  sacred  worth  of  Nature's  grant, 
The  strength  of  bitterness,  and  the  sweet 
Humility  of  beauty's  feet. 


A    MEMORY   OB'    INTERLACHEN.  47 


A  MEMORY  OF  INTERLACHEN. 

HPHERE  is  a  light  in  darkness  which  the  soul 
Can  never  know  until  the  sense  hath  crept 
From  height  to  height  across  the  shadowless  peaks 
Which  sentinel  thy  valley ;  there  are  deeps 
In  thy  green  hollows,  where  still  thought  can  lie 
Through  summer  noons  unended,  glad  with  dreams ; 
There,  too,  is  twilight,  sudden-black  with  storm, 
When  thunder  speaks  from  the  unapproachable  hills, 
And  earth  shakes  at  the  arrows  of  his  light ; 
There  have  I  heard  a  cithern's  tinkling  sound, 
And  hollow  bursts  of  laughter  from  the  hall, 
While  awful  thunder  shook  the  world  again. 
There  have  I  seen  pale  clouds  retreat  before 
The  glory  of  God's  coming,  and  day  die 
In  lingering  splendor  on  the  voiceless  Horn ; 
And  while  keen  players  bent  around  their  board 
I  've  watched  the  gold  of  distant  stars  appear 
Circling  in  music  over  yon  white  brows. 


48  MIDSUMMER    NOON. 


MIDSUMMER    NOON. 

CONFIDENT  Summer! 

Thou  art  here,  thou  radiant  comer  ; 
The  sumach  and  bayberry, 
Soft  sighing  of  the  sea, 
The  ever-climbing  sun, 
The  pausing  of  high  noon 
When  early  birds  have  done  — 
I  know  them  all !     I  rest 
Upon  thy  dew-fed  breast. 
The  squirrel  questions  me, 
The  oak  his  acorn  drops, 
Wild-apple  boughs  bend  over  me, 
Nor  ever  stops 
The  sighing,  endless  sighing  of  the  sea. 


UPON    REVISITING   A   GREEN   NOOK.  49 


UPON   REVISITING  A  GREEN   NOOK. 

*T^HE  sky  is  clear,  the  voice  is  fresh 
Of  waters  beating  on  the  shore, 
And  nature  to  my  heart  her  heart 
Now  lays  once  more. 

Mindful  of  summer  days  long  past, 

She  will  not  show  a  weeping  face, 
But,  cheerful  with  remembered  joy, 
Gives  gladness  place. 

The  light  slips  down  from  other  skies 
And  mingles  with  the  blue  of  this  ; 
I  hear  another  music  through 
The  sparrow's  bliss. 

The  light  of  an  unfading  love 

Paints  the  gay  grass  and  frames  the  sky, 
And  hides  the  moon  in  morning  seas 
And  cannot  die. 


50  SWEETBRIER. 


SWEETBRIER. 

r"T*ENDER  of  words  should  singer  be, 

Sweetbrier,  who  would  tell  of  thee ; 
One  who  has  drunk  with  eager  lip 
And  treasured  thy  companionship  ;  — 

One  who  has  sought  thee  far  and  wide, 
In  early  dew  with  morning  pride ; 
To  whom  thou  art  no  new-made  friend, 
Whose  memories  on  thy  breath  attend. 

For  such  thou  art  a  lemon  grove, 
Where  wandering  orient  odors  rove ; 
Yet  loyal  ever  to  thy  home, 
The  valley  where  the  north  winds  roam. 


THE   BEE   AND   THE   ROSE.  51 


THE   BEE   AND   THE   ROSE. 

HPHERE  is  a  constant  joy  that  I  have  found 
On  upland  pastures  in  the  light  of  noon, 
Far  from  a  human  face  or  human  sound, 
That  I  could  tell,  were  I  a  golden  bee 
Like  this  one  who  goes  booming  toward  the  sea, 
Making  the  most  of  summer,  gone  so  soon, 
And  passing  on  life's  way  melodiously. 

There  is  an  ecstasy  that  I  have  known 

Among  the  shadows  of  green  arching  things 

That  I  could  breathe,  if  I  had  only  grown 

In  fragrant  beauty  like  this  brier  rose, 

Which  lowly  lives  and  wholly  unpraised  blows,  — 

Cheering  the  bright  air  where  the  robin  sings, 

And  only  this  one  simple  duty  knows  ! 


52  UNCHANGED. 


UNCHANGED. 

men  could  walk  these  roads  and  hear  no 
sound 

Save  the  sad  ocean  beating  on  the  shore, 
Or  song  of  birds  who  wait  not  on  the  roar 

Of  waters  wrestling  with  their  rocky  bound ; 

The  iris  bloomed  unseen  beside  the  pool, 
The  morning  rose  unmarked,  the  evening  fell 
On  the  broad  pastures,  and  none  came  to  tell 

Other  than  tales  of  love  in  the  shadows  cool. 

Now  with  the  dawn  the  cowherd  on  his  way, 
The  mason  and  the  builder  with  their  tools, 
Meet  and  salute,  take  counsel  of  the  rules 

To  be  observed  in  laboring  through  the  day. 
Perchance  they  never  think  to  hear  the  voice 
That  calls  forever,  has  forever  called, 
And  shall  forever  when  these  ears  are  palled ; 

Yet  for  one  listener,  though  the  eyes  grow  dim, 
And  though  the  pleasant  places  are  destroyed, 
And  nooks  unveiled  whence  music  was  decoyed, 

The  great  Unchanged  still  smiles  and  waits  for  him. 


PERDITA.  53 


PERDITA. 

A  LONE  across  the  silver-fretted  skies 
*^"    Walked  the  white  moon  ;  attendant  wreaths  of 

cloud 

Wrapt  her  still  steps,  and  downward  to  the  sea 
Her  shadowed  light  descended  brokenly ; 

A  sad  and  lonely  sight  unto  her  eyes 
That  joyful  watched  the  day-spring's  promise  proud, 
Then  saw  day  fade  in  dark,  and  mists  enshroud 

The  path  wherein  the  pallid  moon  must  rise. 

Perdita,  standing  on  the  night-black  marge, 
Gazed  down  upon  the  waters'  constant  change, 
Shuddering  with  fear  before  that  passage  strange 

Over  the  ocean's  dark  uncertain  floor ; 
She  saw  no  rudder  in  the  waiting  barge, 

No  beaconing  light  upon  that  farther  shore. 


54  THE   SEVENTH    SLEEPER. 


THE    SEVENTH    SLEEPER. 

T)  EH  OLD  him  lie  in  beauty  and  in  vigor, 

The  seventh  sleeper  !  all  the  rest  awakened  ; 
Behold  the  winged  hours  are  flitting  by  him 
With  flutter,  and  with  music  on  their  pinions  ! 
Beautiful  hang  the  dews  beside  the  highway, 
The  bitter  highway  where  the  sad  have  fallen ; 
Beautiful  shine  the  blossoms  of  the  dawning, 
But  droop  their  heads  before  the  blaze  of  noontide, 
While  yet  he  sleeps  and  may  not  be  awakened. 
Morning  and  noonday  and  the  dews  of  even, 
Evening  and  midnight  and  the  dews  of  morning, 
Find  him  yet  sleeping  in  the  tremulous  shadow, 
Where  oak-leaves  whisper  to  the  breeze  above  him. 
Soft  are  his  limbs  and  white  as  foam  in  moonlight, 
Nor  know  they  aught  of  change  or  earth's  decaying, 
Since  Gabriel,  the  angel,  lifts  them  often. 

We  are  but  shades  and  wait  not  the  arousing  : 
Pass  on  ;  he  must  awaken  like  those  others 


THE   SEVENTH    SLEEPER.  55 

To  find  them  gone,  alas  !  he  knows  not  whither. 
What  can  avail  the  beauty  of  the  creature  ! 
All  else  is  born  of  change  ;  the  words  are  dying, 
The   youths    his    childhood    knew   have   passed   to 

silence, 
And  the  old  words  no  longer  are  remembered. 


56  SILENCE   AND   SOLITUDE. 


SILENCE   AND   SOLITUDE. 


/^ODS  of  the  desert!  you  are  they 

We  shun  from  childhood's  earliest  breath ; 
Our  passing  joys  are  but  your  prey ; 
You  wait  the  hours  from  birth  to  death. 

Over  soft  lawns  where  blossoms  sleep, 
Under  warm  trees  where  love  was  born, 

I  see  your  haughty  shadows  creep, 
And  wait  to  meet  you  there,  forlorn. 

Afar  on  ancient  sands  you  rest, 

Carven  in  stone,  where  ancient  thought 

Wrapt  you  in  terrors,  —  shapes  unblest, 
Dreadful,  by  might  of  ages  wrought. 

But  not  in  Egypt's  land  alone 

Sleeps  the  great  desert;  everywhere 

Where  gladness  lived  that  now  is  done, 
Behold  a  desert  of  despair ! 


SILENCE   AND    SOLITUDE.  57 

Strange  messengers !  your  brows  of  gloom 
Haunt  every  creature  born  of  earth  ; 

You  follow  to  the  darkened  room ; 
You  watch  the  awful  hour  of  birth. 

You  show  the  lovely  wayside  rose 
Whose  antique  grace  is  born  anew 

To  eyes  of  grief.     Grief  only  knows 
How  tender  is  the  sunset's  hue. 

Gods  of  the  desert !  by  your  hand 

Through  the  sad  waters  are  we  brought 

Into  a  high  and  peaceful  land 

To  drink  of  fountains  else  unsought. 


58  ON    A    WHARF. 


ON  A  WHARF. 

'HHHE  moonlight  filled  the  waters  and  the  strand ; 
The  floating  spires  gleamed  toward  the  starry 

land; 

Pale  Hero  seemed  upon  her  Sestiari  height 
To  stand  with  torch  alight. 

At  anchor  slept  a  heavy  rounded  keel 
Whose  moveless  rudder  made  the  senses  wheel 
To  music  dropping  from  the  Antwerp  bells 
In  fluctuating  swells. 

A  distant  sound  blending  with  dripping  oar, 
I  thought  a  voice,  and  then  a  voice  no  more, 
Past  the  Armenian  convent's  solemn  wall 
Shot  with  swift  rise  and  fall. 

A  stately  barge  moved  on  a  stately  river, 
Bearing  a  queen  from  happy  France  forever 


ON    A    WHARF.  59 

To  Holyrood,  the  witness  of  her  shame, 
Her  beauty  and  sad  fame. 

There  stood  two  lovers  over  Spezzia's  bay, 
Silent,  enamored  of  the  watery  way  ; 
One  must  soon  pass  to  meet  the  purple  dark 
Borne  in  yon  treacherous  bark. 

Breathless  I  watch  a  noble  vessel  come 
Tented  with  sail  and  happy  as  for  home : 
Forward  she  bounds,  when  swift  the  moonlit  gleam 
Disparts  our  shadowy  dream. 

I  tread  upon  my  native  city's  piers  ; 
I  see  what  hope,  what  loveliness  are  hers  ; 
Her  ships  come  sailing  in  unsullied  light 
From  outer  seas  to-night. 


60       ON   WAKING    FROM    A   DREAMLESS   SLEEP. 


ON    WAKING    FROM   A    DREAMLESS 
SLEEP. 

T  WAKED  ;  the  sun  was  in  the  sky, 

The  face  of  heaven  was  fair ; 
The  silence  all  about  me  lay, 
Of  morning  in  the  air. 

I  said,  Where  hast  thou  been,  my  soul, 
Since  the  moon  set  in  the  west  ? 

I  know  not  where  thy  feet  have  trod, 
Nor  what  has  been  thy  quest. 

Where  wast  thou  when  Orion  past 

Below  the  dark-blue  sea  ? 
His  glittering,  silent  stars  are  gone, 

Didst  follow  them  for  me  ? 

Where  wast  thou  in  that  awful  hour 
When  first  the  night-wind  heard 


ON    WAKING    FROM    A   DREAMLESS    SLEEP.       6 1 

The  faint  breath  of  the  coming  dawn, 
And  fled  before  the  word  ? 


Where  hast  thou  been,  my  spirit, 
Since  the  long  wave  on  the  shore 

Tenderly  rocked  my  sense  asleep 
And  I  heard  thee  no  more  ? 

My  limbs  like  breathing  marble 
Have  lain  in  the  warm  down ; 

No  heavenly  chant,  no  earthly  care, 
Have  stirred  a  smile  or  frown. 

I  wake ;  thy  kiss  is  on  my  lips ; 

Thou  art  my  day,  my  sun ! 
But  where,  O  spirit,  where  wast  thou 

While  the  sands  of  night  have  run  ? 


62  SONG. 


O 


SONG. 

PALE  and  silent  dawn,  wilt  speak  to  me  ? 
Above  the  voice  and  motion  of  the  sea 
I  listen  for  my  love. 


0  noon  of  splendor,  with  thy  bird  and  bee, 
And  thy  face  hidden  in  yon  warm  pine-tree, 

Knowest  thou  not  my  love  ? 

Enchanter  thou,  O  deep  and  solemn  night ! 

1  follow  thee,  moon-led,  through  dark  and  bright 

To  find  the  feet  I  love. 


SPRINGTIME.  63 


SPRINGTIME. 

T  WAKENED  to  the  singing  of  a  bird, 

He  was  the  bird  of  spring  ! 
And,  lo  ! 

At  his  sweet  note 
The  flowers  began  to  grow, 
Grass,  leaves,  and  everything ; 
As  if  the  green  world  heard 
The  trumpet  of  his  tiny  throat 
From  end  to  end,  and  winter  and  despair 
Fled  at  his  melody  and  passed  in  air. 

I  heard  at  dawn  the  music  of  a  voice ; 
O  my  beloved,  then  I  said,  the  spring 
Can  visit  only  once  the  waiting  year, 
The  bird  can  bring 

Only  the  season's  song,  nor  his  the  choice 
To  waken  smiles  or  the  remembering  tear. 
But  thou  dost  bring 

Springtime  to  every  day,  and  at  thy  call 
The  flowers  of  life  unfold  though  leaves  of  autumn 
fall. 


64  NEMESIS. 


NEMESIS. 

A  N  evening  born  for  dreams  !  upon  the  shore 

Lies  the  long  glory  in  her  vanishing 
Of  day  grown  tender  ere  she  is  no  more  ; 
The  light  is  love's  own  presence  ;  everything 
Is  sacred  in  that  joy ;  nature  must  sing 
Low  to  herself,  her  cradle-song  !  the  same 
She  sang  of  old  and  made  the  meadows  sing ; 
That  was  when  faith  was  young,  —  ere  unfaith  came. 

Late  lingered,  sporting  in  their  world  of  bliss, 
The  winged  creatures  bred  to  haunt  the  wave  ; 
Ah !  who  can  tell  if  aught  removed  from  this 
Our  joy,  may  be  the  joys  of  those  who  lave 
Their  wing,  and  flit  upon  the  marge,  and  save 
Themselves  from  death,  where,  toying  two  by  two, 
They  seek  the  awful  hand  that  comes  to  pave 
The  sandy  highways  fresh  for  footprints  new. 

Sudden  the  stillness  and  the  rapture  end ; 
Death  has  rushed  in !  a  shot  laid  one  bird  low, 


NEMESIS.  65 

While  one,  to  silence  winging,  —  with  no  friend, — 

In  solitude  upon  his  way  must  go ! 

The  waves  are  dark ;  perchance  he  may  not  know 

His  path,  for  who  can  know  when  left  alone, 

And  darkness  falls  on  all,  above,  below, 

Ah  !  who  can  know  his  way  when  love  is  gone  ! 

But  to  the  mind  that  has  conceived  such  death 

And  brings  this  misery  upon  the  world, 

To  him  who  sees  not  that  the  lightest  breath 

Sacred  within  the  bird  or  blossom  curled 

Is  bliss,  a  mystery  of  life  close-furled; 

On  him  whose  heart  cares  not  for  nature's  heart,  — 

Upon  his  head  one  day  a  bolt  is  hurled, 

And  in  the  death  he  feared  not  he  has  part. 


66  IN    MIST  AND   DARK. 


IN   MIST   AND   DARK. 

T  TNFALLEN  drops  hung  on  the  grass 

And  dripped  from  the  bright  aster's  head ; 
Voiceless  did  the  swallows  pass 
Above  our  voiceless  dead. 


Crickets  to  the  morning  air 
Sang  the  season's  evening  song, 
While  the  sea-birds'  dusky  lair 
Glimmered  with  their  throng. 

Nor  other  sound,  save  dropping  tears, 
Until  the  distant  light-house  bell 
Across  the  land,  across  our  fears, 
In  wide  vibrations  fell,  — 

Fell  surging  over  driven  ships 
That  wander  blind  in  dreadful  seas, 
With  music  out  of  iron  lips 
For  women  on  their  knees. 


IN    MIST   AND    DARK.  67 

Wild  tears,  restrain  your  overflow  ! 
Down  to  the  darkest  gulfs  that  be, 
Thus  the  great  voice  shall  ever  go 
Across  life's  fateful  sea. 


68  THE   WING   OF    FAITH. 


THE   WING   OF   FAITH. 

"  L'Aquila 

L  'uccel  di  Dio.'? 

Paradiso. 

S~\  BIRD  of  God !     Unto  the  saint 
Thou  stretchest  out  thy  wing : 
Strong  in  thy  strength  he  will  not  faint, 
But,  ever  rising,  sing. 

Strongest  of  winged  creatures  thou, 
Great  eagle  of  our  God  ! 
From  what  vast  eyrie  bendest  now 
Where  feet  have  never  trod,  — 

To  watch  the  world  of  waiting  men, 
And  soothe  their  tired  eyes, 
To  lift  them  out  of  earthly  ken 
Into  thy  mysteries  ? 

Where,  eagle  of  the  Lord  !  hast  borne  — 
Into  what  unknown  bliss  — 


THE    WING    OF    FAITH.  69 

The  weary  ones  from  beds  of  thorn, 
The  dear  ones  that  we  miss  ? 


Out  in  the  dark  we  follow  thee, 
We  seek  the  unsetting  sun ; 
What  untold  glories  shall  we  see 
Before  the  flight  be  done  ! 

O  bird  of  God !  unto  the  saint 
Thou  stretchest  out  thy  wing  : 
Strong  in  thy  strength  he  shall  not  faint, 
But,  ever  rising,  sing. 


THE  PRODIGAL'S  RETURN. 


THE   PRODIGAL'S    RETURN. 

I S  strange  indeed !     We  wander,  we  forget, 

We  lose  ourselves  in  countless  deeds  that  fret 
And  trouble  the  sad  hours ;  then  do  we  turn 
And  silent  sit,  like  ashes  in  an  urn, 
Beside  the  waters  where  in  youth  we  strayed. 
The  Soul,  grown  timid,  of  herself  afraid, 
Comes  with  no  queenly  bearing  back  to  seek 
The  beautiful  green  courts  wherein  none  speak 
Save  voices  of  the  air  and  the  deep  sea. 
She  has  forgot  that  Nature  made  her  free 
Once  in  that  land  divine,  and  magic  tales 
Whispered  within  the  stillness  of  strange  sails 
That  cross  at  midnight  through  the  moonlit  track 
Of  ocean,  and,  unnamed,  ne'er  venture  back. 


CHRYSALIDES.  71 


CHRYSALIDES. 

ATIGHT-BLUE  skies  of  thine, 

Egypt,  and  thy  dead  who  may  not  rest, 
Who  with  wide  eyes 

Stand  staring  in  the  darkness  of  the  mine  ! 
Thy  woman,  Egypt,  with  her  breast 
Two  cups  of  carven  gold, 
And  hands  that  no  more  rise 
In  praise  or  supplication,  or  to  sound 
The  timbrel  in  the  dance ! 
White  is  thy  noontide  glare, 
But  no  keen  glance 
Of  yet  created  sun 

Can  pierce  the  deeps  and  caverns  of  thy  dead. 
They  are  overspread 

With  a  new  earth,  where  new  men  come  and  go, 
And  sleep  when  all  is  done ; 
While  far  below, 
Shut  from  the  upper  air, 
These  stirless  figures,  bound 
In  awful  cerements,  must  forever  wait. 


72  CHRYSALIDES. 

There  is  another  land 
Where  in  a  valley  once  the  god  Pan  slept, 
Under  the  young  blue  sky,  between  two  peaks ; 
And  here  a  hero,  running,  as  one  seeks 
For  fame,  with  ardor  which  his  strength  outstepped, 
Fell  dying  in  the  stillness  ;  quiet  lay 
The  rounded  marble  limbs  in  the  green  grass. 
An  eagle,  pausing  on  his  fiery  way, 
Down  swooped.     Lo  !  as  he  soared,  alas  ! 
Nearing  his  awful  steep, 
Where  only  the  dews  weep, 
And  bearing  in  his  clutches  that  bright  form, 
He  heard  the  hero's  voice  : 

"  Eat,  bird,  and  feed  thyself  !     This  morsel  choice 
Shall  give  thy  claws  a  span  ; 
This  courage  of  a  man 
Shall  bid  thy  pinion  swell, 
And  by  my  strength  thy  wings  shall  grow  an  ell." 


THE    BIRD    OF   AUTUMN.  73 


THE   BIRD   OF   AUTUMN. 

TO  

T    ATE  bird,  who  singest  now  alone 

When  woods  are  silent  and  the  sea 
Breathes  heavily  and  makes  a  moan, 
Faint  prescience  of  woe  to  be,  — 
A  sweetness  hovers  in  thy  voice 
Spring  knows  not ;  autumn  is  thy  choice. 

Dear  bird,  what  tender  song  is  thine, 
Born  out  of  loss  and  nursed  in  storm  ; 
A  messenger  of  grace  divine 
Enshrouded  in  thy  feathery  form ! 
So  com'st  thou,  darling,  with  the  close 
Of  summer,  lovelier  than  her  rose. 


74        THE  PATRIOTS  BIRTHPLACE. 


THE    PATRIOT'S    BIRTHPLACE. 

ESSEX,    MASSACHUSETTS. 

O I  LENT,  breezy  afternoons. 

Silent,  dull  November  eves, 
Creaking  gate  and  rusty  hinge, 
Voices  of  dead  leaves. 

Summer  brings  the  tansy  now, 
Flaunting  round  the  ancient  well ; 
Farther  stretches  web  and  waste, 
Time's  decaying  spell. 

Wide  across  the  continent 
Speaks  the  patriot's  deathless  word  ; 
Blossoms  on  the  rocky  hills, 
In  the  vales  is  heard. 

"  I  will  give  the  Morning  Star 
To  him,  the  Lord  saith,  who  shall  keep 


THE  PATRIOT'S  BIRTHPLACE.  75 

My  work  unfailing  to  the  end, 
Nor  ever  slothful  sleep." 

Then  let  winter  tempests  rage, 
And  the  careless  hand  of  spring 
Scatter  weeds  where'er  she  goes,  — 
And  autumn  ruin  bring  ! 

Built  up  of  our  larger  hope, 
Of  equal  laws  and  equal  right, 
His  home  shall  only  oceans  bind, 
Nor  ages  quench  his  light. 


76  THE    MESSAGE. 


THE    MESSAGE. 

THREES,   the  green   trees,  rocks,   and   the  wave- 
washed  sands, 

You  are  all  here !  while,  like  the  summer  birds, 
Yet  how  unlike  !  the  soul  of  man  has  passed 
Out  of  his  perfect  form  and  vanished  quite, 
Now  question  we  the  rocks  and  ask  the  trees 
To  point  the  way  he  went  and  show  us  where  ? 
To  bring  us  news  of  him,  while  we  press  on, 
Spent  with  our  errands  in  this  nether  world. 

0  trees  and  rocks,  alas !  and  whispering  sands, 

1  think  you  bear  a  message  !     Let  me  haunt 
Your  wild,  that  in  the  silence  I  may  lose 
Nothing  of  the  great  secret  you  have  heard, 
And  fain  would  tell  if  man  would  pause  to  hear. 


GRETCHEN    IN    EXILE.  77 


GRETCHEN    IN   EXILE. 

TO    HER   LOVER. 


TVnND  art  thou,  and  these  faces  all  are  kind, 

But  in  my  dreams 

I  see  them  not  :  I  see  the  Neckar  wind, 
I  see  the  beams 

Of  morning  dance  before  my  childhood's  eye 
On  that  far  sky. 

Dost  thou  remember  how  each  gray  stone  face 

Peeped  from  the  bed 

Of  ivy,  nature-woven  round  that  place  ? 

No  longer  dead, 

In  some  strange,  magic  hour  they  seemed  to  stir 

For  their  child  worshiper. 

Dost  thou  remember  where  the  ripening  vine 
O'ertops  the  wall  ? 

The  roadside  rest,  the  flask  of  golden  wine, 
The  Alpine  call  ? 


78  GRETCHEN    IN    EXILE. 

Alas  !  thou  canst  not ;  hasten  then  with  me 
Back  through  the  darkening  sea  ! 

Forever  in  my  dreams  must  I  return  ! 

The  kine  at  rest 

I  see,  afar,  where  Alpine  roses  burn ; 

And  I  am  blest 

While  lingering  beside  them  !     Wake  me  not, 

O  darling,  wake  me  not ! 


TO  .  79 


TO  . 

"  Pain  is  not  the  fruit  of  pain." 

E.  B.  B. 

A  FAR  !  afar  !  the  rosy  sails  are  far, 
^^     And  far  sound  all  the  voices  of  the  world ; 
Tenderly  hither  bends  the  evening  star, 
And  with  an  uttered  hush  the  waves  are  curled ; 
Thy  loneliness  hath  thrown  a  viewless  bar 
Across  thy  life,  as  when  a  storm  has  hurled 
The  mountain  downward,  and  the  shepherd's  track 
Is  lost,  and  wearily  he  wanders  back. 

Must  thou  then  wander  while  the  years  decay 
And  carry  with  them  hopes  that  feed  the  soul  ? 
'T  was  here  the  little  loves  were  wont  to  stray ; 
Now  they  have  vanished  with  their  laughter  droll ; 
They  elsewhere  music  heard  and  ran  away 
Beyond  the  desert  and  the  greening  knoll ; 
Sweet  was  their  presence,  but  they  pined  and  fled 
Where  music,  dance,  and  feasting  are  not  dead. 


8o  TO  . 

Dead  they  are  not !  earth's  gladness  cannot  die 
While  still  live  human  hearts  who  seek  to  find 
Each  other,  longing  to  pour  forth  the  sigh 
That  broods  within  the  breast  of  all  mankind ; 
Nor  while  the  clouded  days  go  slowly  by 
And  many-handed  cares  our  spirits  bind, 
Till  suddenly  Love  vanishes  and  alone 
We  dwell  and  listen  to  his  echo,  not  his  tone. 

Knowledge  by  suffering  entereth  ;  therefore  ye, 
Who  have  lost  all,  alone  can  know  how  dear 
The  voice  which  in  the  silence  speaks  to  me, 
Bidding  depart  the  shuddering  face  of  fear. 
Companion  in  earth's  grief !  the  evening  sea 
Is  calmer  now  for  us,  the  sky  more  clear ; 
Over  these  rosy  waves  the  voice  divine 
Cries,  Comfort  ye  !  this  beauty  all  is  Mine  ! 

Mine  are  the  painted  petals  and  the  hues 
That  shine  in  all  things ;  Mine  the  power  that  fills 
This  empty  vessel  of  the  world  ;  the  dews 
Freshening  the  grass;  the  awful  flood  that  spills 
From  the  mountain-top :  my  messengers  infuse 
Color  and  speech  in  all ;  and  Nature  wills 


TO   .  8l 

Through  gladness  of  her  beauty  thus  to  bring 
Man  home,  where  all  the  fountains  of  desire  spring. 

Turn  then,  and  find  the  consolations  borne 
In  on  the  lonely  spirit  from  the  fields 
That  fade  and  die,  their  loveliness  outworn. 
Would  I  could  tell  the  harvest  autumn  yields  ! 
O  ye  who  sorrow  !  stand  not  now  forlorn 
As  envious  archers  must,  deprived  of  shields  ! 
Ye  are  the  blessed  ones  !  the  heavens  rain  down 
On  your  sad  hearts  a  joy  till  now  unknown. 

Alone  indeed  ye  are,  and  so  must  stand  : 

The  desert  places  will  not  bloom  again ; 

The  frost  of  winter  covers  all  the  land ; 

The  air  is  only  laden  with  one  strain  ; 

The  blossoming  pastures  are  now  swept  with  sand, 

And  everywhere  we  hear  a  cry  of  pain  ; 

Listen  !  the  Word  saith :  All  shall  die  save  thou, 

Spirit,  who  liveth  in  the  Eternal  Now. 


82  "THE  HOUR  YE  KNOW  NOT." 


"THE   HOUR   YE   KNOW   NOT." 

TN  the  still  night, 

Pallid  with  moonlight  and  unstirred  by  wind, 
The  noisy  waves  fell  crashing  on  the  sand, 
Saying  there  will  be  rain. 

But  he  who  slept  till  day,  and  waked  to  find 
The  sheeted  raindrops  beating  on  the  land, 
Did  loud  complain 
His  disappointed  hope. 

Even  thus  we  sleep, 

Knowing  the  moment  and  the  parting  near ; 

We  question  not  of  happiness  or  pain, 

Nor  in  the  midnight  do  we  wake  to  hear 

The  raindrops  feeding  earth's  wide  grassy  slope  ! 


THE   GIFT    DIVINE.  83 


THE   GIFT   DIVINE. 

TAIVE,  O  diver,  and  bring 
A  pearl  for  her  throat ; 
Dip,  O  fisher,  and  sing 
Lying  afloat; 

Thus  perchance  in  your  net 
You  may  find  the  magic  ring. 

Strive,  O  striver,  no  more  ! 

When  the  apple  is  ripe, 

When  the  south  wind  blows  from  the  shore, 

And  the  wild-birds  pipe, 

Late  shall  the  song  be  yours  ; 

Oh  remember,  ye  who  implore  ! 

Beautiful  is  she  and  dear : 

In  vain  would  you  give  her 

Jewels  both  rare  and  clear ; 

No  stream  nor  river 

Shall  give  you  her  love 

Till  the  stately  planets  draw  near. 


84  TO   THE    DWELLERS    IN    HOUSES. 


TO  THE    DWELLERS    IN    HOUSES. 

/^\  SINGERS  who  tell 

Of  the  glory  of  light,  the  music  of  leaves,  the 

voice  of  the  sea ; 
And  poets  who  chant  of  the  footstep  untrammeled 

and  buoyant  and  free  ! 
The  truth  is  half  told  ! 
And  the  wilderness  stands, 
Undiscovered  and  bold. 

Forever  inviting ! 

A  garden  unmeasured,  a  sweetness  unlearned,  a  music 
unframed ; 

A  lamp  to  the  spirit,  a  force  to  the  soul,  a  power  un 
tamed. 

Why  cleanse  we  and  eat, 

Why  slumber  and  drink. 

Yet  hunger  for  meat  ? 


TO  THE    DWELLERS    IN    HOUSES.  85 

Take  thine  own !  and  rejoice 

In  the  shade  of  the  oak,  in  beauty  of  summer,  in  fruit 

of  the  vine ; 
With  the  birth  of  the  lily,  the  death  of  the  rose,  the 

strength  of  the  pine  ; 
Too  rich  to  rehearse  ! 
Though  the  days  were  renewed, 
And  the  might  of  a  verse. 

Not  alone,  not  alone, 

Of  these  would  I  sing ;  the  beauty  we  love,  the  Love 

that  endures ; 
But  the  waning  of  days,  the  falling  of  leaves,  and  the 

power  that  cures ; 
O  silence  !  O  day ! 
Send  thy  children  abroad, 
Come  winter,  come  May ! 

Thou  blue  bending  roof  ! 

We  would  live,  let  us  live,  in  the  light  of  the  sky ! 
Here  is  truth  and  constancy,  here  is  power  that  can 
not  die  ! 

Open,  O  nature,  thine  heart 
To  these  imprisoned  ones, 
And  tell  them  whose  voice  thou  art ! 


86  PREPARATION. 


PREPARATION. 

T    AY  thy  heart  down  upon  the  warm,  soft  breast, 
*— '     Of  June  and  take  thy  rest ; 
The  world  is  full  of  cares  that  never  cease, 
The  air  is  full  of  peace. 

Lie  thou,  my  heart,  beneath  the  burnished  leaves ; 

What  though  the  sad  world  grieves  ? 
Is  not  the  green  earth  joyous  and  at  play 

Upon  this  bright  June  day  ? 

Yet  eager  dost  thou  watch  the  building  birds, 

The  busy  brooding  herds, 
The  pauseless  journey  of  the  sunlit  days, 

The  joy  that  never  stays. 

O  heart  for  whom  the  summer  days  are  bright, 

Wouldst  thou,  too,  gather  light  ? 
Art  thou  astir  with  every  leaf  that  moves, 

And  the  first  bird  that  roves  ? 


PREPARATION.  87 

Art  thou  abroad  with  the  white  morning  star 

Scaling  the  heights  afar? 
Ceaselessly  mounting,  O  thou  heart,  some  hill, 

The  springs  of  life  to  fill  ? 

As  midnight  to  the  dawn,  as  dark  to  day, 

As  sun  and  shade  at  play, 
So  do  the  hours  exchange  and  tempests  tune 

Their  awful  harps  in  June. 

This  is  the  hour  when  buds  prepare  to  break, 

When  blossoms  fruitage  take  ; 
This  is  the  hour  of  breathing  ere  the  heat 

O'ertake  our  wearied  feet. 


88  A    DREAM    IN    MAY. 


A  DREAM   IN    MAY. 

A     VISION  of  a  quiet  place  where  lay 

Late  apple-blossoms  scattered  on  the  grass ; 
A  carpet  greener  far  than  all  the  day 
Our  eyes  had  seen,  alas  ! 

A  vision  in  the  night  of  what  shall  be ! 
A  rounded  hillock  and  a  day  of  peace, 
A  tender  memory  of  a  soul  set  free, 
Earth  greener  where  we  cease. 

Such  was  the  quiet  place  whereon  there  lay 
Pale  apple-blossoms  scattered  on  the  grass  ; 
A  carpet  greener  far  than  all  that  day 
Mine  eyes  had  seen,  alas ! 


LET    US    BE    PATIENT.  89 


LET    US    BE    PATIENT. 

"  Let  us  be  patient." 

OPHELIA. 

T  TEAT  overspread  the  earth,  the  birds  were  dumb ; 
A  shrouding  of  white  cloud,  which  was  not 

cloud, 

Or  mist,  which  was  not  mist,  half  hid  the  sun 
And  half  betrayed ;  Sleep  poured  her  drowsy  draught 
Over  the  morning  eyes  of  student  men, 
And  all  was  stirless  :  yet  the  day  advanced  ; 
There  were  loud  outcries  in  the  market-place ; 
And  busy  women  hurried  to  and  fro, 
Each  on  her  errand,  till  the  evening  came. 
Then  toward  the  sundown  rose  a  mighty  storm 
Which  roused  the  sleeping  earth,  and  raging  aimless 

winds 

Tore  the  great  seas  and  ravaged  all  the  land  ; 
Then  the  impatient  spirits  whose  languid  noon 
Darkened  the  sweetness  of  their  summer  day 
Arose  and  met  the  awful  feet  of  the  Lord, 


90  LET   US    BE   PATIENT. 

Walking  the  earth  and  teaching  men  to  know 
There  shall  be  times  to  work  and  times  to  wait 
We  cannot  understand,  until  the  hour 
When  we  shall  pass  the  boundary  of  the  sun. 


TO    L.    W.    J.  91 


TO   L.  W.   J. 

ON   HER   BIRTHDAY,    SEPTEMBER    13,    1878. 

"\  "X  7HEN  the  breath  of  autumn  comes 
First,  to  say  the  summer 's  done, 
When  the  birds  their  leafy  homes 
Rifle  of  the  seed  and  cone, 
While  the  yellow  sun  lies  warm 
On  the  apple  and  the  farm, 
And  the  perfect  grass  is  gay 
With  hawkweed,  as  with  flowers  of  May, 
When  the  early  morn  is  bright 
And  all  things  wear  the  tender  light 
Love  wears  before  it  vanisheth,  — 
I  say,  dear  friend,  this  is  like  thee, 
So  plenteous  art  thou  and  so  free ; 
Thy  good  cheer  sorrow  banisheth ; 
And  yet  a  softened  gleam  doth  rest, 
Upon  thee,  for  upon  thy  breast 
Many  a  wintry  storm  hath  pressed ; 
Soon  thou  knowest  the  birds  shall  cease, 
And  Love  that  gave  them  give  thee  peace. 


92  PARTED. 


PARTED. 

"  That  was  and  is  and  ever  shall  be." 
TO   A.    D.    T.    W. 

'  I  ^HE  river  sings  his  ancient  song 

Upon  his  stony  bed, 
The  pine  and  birch  and  maple  throng 
And  join  with  waving  head. 

O  follow,  follow  up  the  stream 

And  rest  ye,  loving  eyes  ! 

There  where  the  mountains  like  a  dream 

Fold  round  the  shadowy  skies. 

O  eyes  !  'tis  but  the  river's  bed 
And  shivering  birch  ye  see ! 
Look  not  to  find  her  pretty  head 
Beside  the  gleaming  tree. 

The  hermit-thrush,  in  hidden  ways 
Where  all  but  song  is  dim, 


PARTED.  93 

Sings  on  and  on,  "  Symbolic  days," 
And  still  repeats  his  hymn. 

By  night  the  river's  plaint  is  long, 
At  noon  tall  pines  complain, 
Until  I  think  to  these  belong 
A  knowledge  of  our  pain. 


94  ENDYMION. 


ENDYMION. 

E  moon  was  up  last  night,  and  all  the  earth 
Was  gay  under  the  favor  of  her  face ; 
Secure  from  wandering  footsteps,  creatures  bred 
In  lonely  clefts  sped  over  grassy  lawns, 
And  sniffed  strange  odors  from  exotic  blooms ; 
The  wilding  blossoms  gathered,  worshiping, 
New  whiteness  from  the  silver  of  her  beam, 
While  fairies  spread  bright  yellow  canopies 
To  shield  them  from  the  keenness  of  her  eye. 
This  morn,  how  tired  out  do  they  all  appear ! 
The  forehead  of  the  sky  now  wears  a  veil, 
The  winds  have  ceased,  the  fairy  shields  remain, 
The  borrowed  whiteness  of  the  blossom  stays  ; 
But  silent  are  they  all  and  hide  their  love, 
Timid  as  one  first  touched  by  lover's  glance, 
Who  stands  half  slain  with  all  heaven  in  her  heart. 


WINTER    LILACS.  9$ 


WINTER   LILACS. 

TO    G.   D.    H. 

A    BUNCH  of  lilacs  there  by  the  door; 
'^     That  and  no  more  ! 
Delicate,  lily-white,  like  the  new  snow 

Falling  below ; 
A  friend  saw  the  flowers  and  brought  them  to  me, 

As  one  who  should  see 
A  trifle,  a  glove,  but  dropped  and  returned, 

While  a  loving  thought  burned. 

Dark  all  day  was  that  room  of  mine, 

Till  those  flowers  divine 
Into  my  darkness  brought  their  own  light, 

And  back  to  the  sight 
Of  my  spirit  the  happiest  days  of  June 

And  the  brooklet's  tune  ;  — 

Where  the  old  front  door  was  left  open  wide, 
While  by  my  side 


96  WINTER   LILACS. 

One  sat,  who,  raising  his  eyes  from  the  book 

With  the  old  fond  look, 
Asked  if  I  loved  not  indeed  that  page 

And  the  words  of  the  sage. 

And  as  we  spoke,  the  cool  blue  sky, 

The  robin  nigh, 
The  drooping  blossoms  of  locust-trees 

Humming  with  bees, 
The  budding  garden,  the  season's  calm, 

Dropt  their  own  balm. 

All  these,  my  friend,  were  brought  back  to  me, 

Like  a  tide  of  the  sea. 
When  out  of  winter  and  into  my  room 

Came  summer's  bloom  : 
The  flowers  reopened  those  shining  gates 

Where  the  soul  waits 
Many  and  many  a  day  in  vain, 

While  in  the  rain 
We  stand,  and,  doubting  the  future,  at  last 

Forget  the  past. 

So  you  will  believe  what  a  posy  may  do, 
When  friends  are  true, 


WINTER   LILACS.  97 

For  the  sick  at  heart,  in  the  wintry  days, 

When  nothing  allays 
The  restless  hunger,  the  tears  that  start, 

The  weary  smart, 
But  the  old,  old  love,  and  the  summer  hush 

And  the  lilac  bush. 


98  THE   CRICKET. 


THE   CRICKET. 

A  LL  summer  long  the  cricket  sings, 

But  in  June  the  busy  birds, 
Proud  as  youth,  on  their  young  wings 
Sing  above  the  lowing  herds  ; 
Willows  whisper  to  the  springs, 
All  the  bright  blue  air  is  full 
Of  music,  and  our  sense  is  dull. 

By  and  by  the  birds  are  still, 
By  and  by  the  herds  withdrawn  ; 
Summer  bees  have  drunk  their  fill, 
Autumn  winds  the  flowers  have  strewn 
Then  the  crickets  have  their  will ; 
Now,  we  say,  is  summer  done, 
Now  the  crickets  have  begun. 


THE   OFFERING.  99 


THE    OFFERING. 

TV  TY  altar  holds  a  constant  flame  ; 

There  eager,  day  by  day, 
I  lay  my  offering ;  all  the  same 
In  dust  it  drifts  away. 

The  days  return,  the  seasons  turn, 
And  punctual  with  the  morn 
I  bring  my  offering,  and  I  burn 
What  life  from  life  has  torn. 

And  rarely  at  the  dawn  or  eve, 
And  rarely  in  the  night, 
Down  from  the  altar  I  receive 
A  compensating  light. 

Therefore  in  joy  I  offer  still 
Myself  when  day  is  born  ; 
For  late  or  soon  a  light  will  fill 
My  spirit  else  forlorn. 


100       TO   ONE   WHOSE   SIGHT   WAS    FAILING. 


TO  ONE  WHOSE   SIGHT  WAS   FAILING. 

"  Count  it  for  certainty, 
Light  is  with  thee  bewildered  and  not  dead.:' 

DANTE'S  Paradise, 

TPVEAR  fading  eyes  !  wherefrom  the  fading  sight 

Falls  like  the  sunset  of  a  falling  day, 
But  leaves  no  hope  that  morning's  footstep  light 
Will  bring  again  what  Time  has  taken  away ! 
Dawn,  when  she  mounts  afresh  on  glory's  height, 
Gladdening  anew  the  valleys  of  the  world, 
Must  leave  thy  powers  ever  in  mist  enfurled 
To  wander  restless  through  thy  waking  night. 
Thus  pondered  I,  when,  lo !  the  vale  of  grief 
Burst  sudden  into  song,  and  all  was  well. 
I  watched  the  vision  through  a  rain  of  tears 
With  him  who  saw  therein  certain  belief : 
What  saw  I  ?     Neither  verse  nor  song  can  tell 
The  blessed  certainty,  the  all-seeing  spheres. 


THE   GARDEN    OF    FAME. 


THE   GARDEN   OF   FAME. 

"  The  garden-land  of  fame  lies  between  Walhalla  and  the  sea." 

SCANDINAVIAN  POET. 

T  T  7OULDST  thou  walk  in  the  garden  of  fame, 
*          Wouldst  thou  taste  of  the  fruits  that  grow 
In  alleys  where  grapes  hang  low, 
In  fields  that  are  never  the  same  ? 

By  the  feet  of  the  awful  sea 
Alone  canst  thou  reach  those  flowers, 
And  sit  in  the  shaded  bowers, 
Calm  home  of  the  bird  and  the  bee. 

No  pathway,  no  compass  can  lead, 
Alone  must  thou  find  the  shore, 
Alone  through  the  fret  and  the  roar, 
Where  the  mailed  waters  tread. 

But  he  who  would  cling  to  a  spar, 
Or  hold  by  a  knotted  rope, 
And  laugh  in  his  secret  hope, 
Nor  question  his  way  of  a  star,  — 


102     '  '     ±H£   GARDEN   OF    FAME. 

May  be  saved  by  a  master-hand, 
And  fast  to  the  shore  may  hold  ; 
He  may  see  the  apples  of  gold, 
He  may  wander  indeed  on  that  strand, 

But  when  the  days  are  fulfilled, 
And  the  master's  feet  are  led 
Where  only  the  gods  may  tread, 
And  whither  the  gods  have  willed,  — 

Then  he  who  clung  to  the  keel, 
Nor  worshiped  in  labor  and  love, 
Nor  yearned  for  the  apples,  nor  strove 
With  a  yearning  the  lover  must  feel,  — 

Sees  the  waves  of  oblivion  rise 

And  gather  to  drag  him  down ; 

While  the  face  of  the  east  wears  a  frown, 

And  are  vanished  the  god-like  eyes. 


IN    MEMORIAM.  103 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

OTTO   DRESEL, 

July,  1890. 

T    IS  TEN,  whence  come  these  chords  ! 
"^    The  mighty  east  blossoms  and  now  is  red, 
And  now  the  strings  of  the  great  harp  of  light 
Are  laid  across  the  world,  and  what  was  dead 
Now  newly  wakes  and  sings. 

We  cannot  hear  the  music  where  it  rings ; 

We  cannot  know  the  words  ; 

But  on  the  sea  of  harmony  there  floats, 

Forever  listening,  one  who  heard  the  notes 

And  bore  them  in  his  breast 

To  the  sad  hearts  of  men. 

Down  the  far  west, 

Beyond  the  space  where  late  the  night-bird  wings, 

Has  sunk  the  leader  of  our  harmonies. 

The  gardens  of  the  blest 


104  IN   MEMORIAM. 

Must  vibrate  now  to  antique  melodies, 
Since  he  is  hither  sped  ; 
He  heard  them  in  the  morning  of  the  world, 
And  brought  them  to  us  down  the  centuries. 

What  stillness  of  the  earth  now  he  is  gone 

And  this  brief  day  is  done ! 

Staying  our  feet, 

That  fain  would  follow  him, 

Stands  Silence  with  veiled  head ; 

The  inarticulate  pines 

Still  give  their  sacred  signs, 

But  far  away  and  dim 

Their  meaning  lies, 

And  he  is  dead, 

The  master  and  interpreter. 


MIDNIGHT. 


I05 


MIDNIGHT. 

TV TIGHT,  with  thy  passionless  stars  ! 
Awake  and  alone  with  my  grief 
I  hide  in  thy  coolness,  thy  calm, 
And  my  heart  finds  relief. 


Cold  is  your  vigil,  O  stars  ! 
Ye  are  mirrored  in  dew  and  in  tears : 
The  glad  watch  ye  not,  ye  pass  on 
Seeing  the  grief  of  the  years. 

Thou  too,  Orion,  must  sink  ! 
Latest  thou  heardst  our  farewell ; 
Again  thou  bear'st  from  me  my  love, 
And  no  word  canst  thou  tell. 

Ah,  Night,  how  swift  art  thou  sped ! 
For  others  day  brings  a  new  birth  : 
Oh,  take  me !  for  fain  would  I  pass 

With  the  stars  to  the  bosom  of  earth. 


106  MIDNIGHT. 

Not  for  me  is  glory  of  dawn, 
The  undoing  of  deeds  that  are  done 
The  light  I  have  lost  is  still  lost 
Though  I  walk  in  the  sun. 


A    FAR    HAVEN.  107 


A   FAR   HAVEN. 

"  For  those  who  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  water,  in  the  formidable 
stream  that  has  set  in,  for  those  overcome  by  decay  and  death,  I  will 
tell  thee  of  an  island,  O  Kappa."  — ORIENTAL  BOOKS. 

T  JOIST  the  sail  and  bear  away  ! 

Of  an  island  I  have  heard 
Anchored  in  the  star-sown  deep, 
Whither  Love  has  gone  astray. 
Long  ago  he  heard  the  roar 
Of  breakers  falling  on  the  sand 
Of  some  unknown  Indian  strand, 
And  with  no  reluctant  word 
Sailed  away. 

In  new  meadows,  by  new  seas, 
We  must  seek  him  with  the  breeze 
Blowing  from  the  gates  of  sleep. 
Listen,  we  may  hear  him  call 
Where  goldenrod  o'ertops  the  wall, 
Or  where  the  moon  across  the  night 
Bends  her  steps. 


108  A    FAR    HAVEN. 

From  that  island  in  the  sea 

We  are  told  of  dreamily 

By  seers  of  the  Orient, 

I  hear  him  call : 

What  powers  have  ye  lent 

To  these  poor  ears, 

Spirit  of  Love  ! 

That  in  perpetual  banishment 

Live  my  dark  fears  ? 

For  oft  I  seem  to  rove, 

When  shadows  fall, 

Toward  that  island,  that  far  island  of  the  sea, 

Where  thou  dost  dwell ; 

And  over  the  sea-swell 

Comes  a  glad  vision,  to  the  inward  sight, 

Of  what  I  heard,  O  Kappa,  and  told  thee. 


THE    HAUNTS    OF    POESY.  1 09 


THE   HAUNTS   OF   POESY. 

TF  Poesy  thou  dost  love,  and  seek  to  guess 

The  shadowy  coverts  where  her  footsteps  roam, 
Easy  they  seem  and  common  ;  yet  how  rare  ! 
The  bee  and  squirrel  know,  though  none  the  less 
Many  must  seek  in  vain,  nor  any  come 
Into  the  very  place,  save  love  and  care 
And  reverence  accompany  him  there. 

Sometimes  within  a  little,  plumy  dell 
Where  the  brown  sparrow  cools  his  rapid  wing, 
And  sometimes  under  apple-boughs  entwined, 
We  say :  Surely  't  is  here  she  loves  to  dwell ; 
When,  lo !  she  seems  no  longer  one  fair  thing 
Chiefly  to  choose,  but  everywhere  can  find 
Loveliness  suited  to  her  varying  mind. 

Sacred  the  dusty  paths  of  life  have  grown 
From  her  pure  presence.  Fluttering  bird, 
Whose  song  is  hidden  in  my  heart,  I  hear 
Thy  music  now  in  yonder  treetop's  crown ; 


IIO  THE    HAUNTS    OF    POESY. 

Yet  often,  often,  is  my  spirit  stirred 

By  thy  low  melodies  when  no  trees  are  near, 

When  days  are  dark  and  all  the  world  is  drear. 

Late  do  we  learn  perchance  that  thou  hast  brought 
Thy  lovers  by  strange  paths  thy  voice  to  know ; 
Strange  is  the  peace  thou  bringest  to  the  heart ! 
How  many  desert  places  hast  thou  taught 
To  speak,  how  bid  the  summer  breeze  to  blow 
While  winter-time  and  I  have  sat  apart 
Enchanted  by  thy  voice,  drowned  in  thy  siren  art ! 


THE    FOLDING.  Ill 


THE   FOLDING. 

11  There  shall  be  one  fold  and  one  shepherd." 

"\  T  7ILD  bird  flying  northward,  whither  thou? 

And  vessel    bending   southward,   what    thy 

quest  ? 

Clouds  of  the  east,  with  sunshine  on  your  brow, 
Whither  ?  and  crescent  setting  in  the  west  ? 

Still  we  pursue  while  the  white  day  is  ours ; 

The  wild  bird  journeys  northward  in  his  strength; 
The  tender  clouds  waste  in  their  sunny  bowers, 

One  shepherd  guides  and  gathers  them  at  length. 

Fly  swift,  ye  birds,  against  the  north  wind  fly, 
And  crowd  your  sail,  ye  vessels  southward  bound  ! 

Rest,  rest,  ye  clouds,  upon  the  happy  sky ! 
Thus  nightly  in  the  fold  shall  all  be  found. 


112  TIDES. 


T 


TIDES. 

"  I  am  the  beginning  and  the  end,  the  first  and  the  last." 

HE  tide  ran  low,  ran  very  low,  ran  out; 

Autumn  had  settled  down  upon  the  land ; 
And  Winter's  face,  the  face  of  death,  was  sweet, 
For  there  was  calm,  an  end  of  strife  and  doubt. 
Strange  grew  the  common  sky,  the  wonted  strand, 
Since  here  no  more  our  loving  eyes  could  meet, 
No  more  the  aching  heart  and  wearied  feet 
Rest  by  Love's  side  and  hold  his  tireless  hand. 


But  one  day,  walking  by  the  morning  sea, 

There  rose  a  wave  of  summer  and  of  youth 

That  broke  resistless  through  grief's  narrow  bound, 

And  wrought  life's  past  and  present  and  to  be 

Into  one  marvelous  vision  of  the  truth ; 

The  imperishable  joy  swept  in  without  one  sound. 


THE   SOUL   OF   THE   POET.  113 


THE   SOUL   OF   THE   POET. 

T  TPON  the  storm-swept  beach  brown  broken  weeds 

Lay  scattered  far  abroad,  and  as  he  saw 
The  wild,  disordered  strand,  "  Behold  the  law," 
He  cried,  "  of  my  sad  mind  and  her  dread  needs." 
But  as  he  wandered  there,  those  fruitless  seeds 
Were  trampled  by  his  feet  while  quiet  lay 
His  spirit  on  the  waves,  and  joined  their  play 
Round  a  far  rock  where  safe  the  sea-bird  breeds  ; 
And  then  he  knew,  not  like  the  strand  forlorn, 
But  like  the  sea  his  soul  her  color  drew 
From  heaven,  and  all  the  splendors  of  the  morn 
And  greater  glories  that  with  ripeness  grew 
Were  his,  and  his  the  calm  the  evening  knew, 
And  every  grace  that  out  of  heaven  is  born. 


114  HOME. 


HOME. 

T  T  7HY  dost  thou  urge  me  thus  to  leave 
The  gray  shore  and  the  busy  sea, 
Before  the  autumn  learns  to  grieve 
His  vanished  ecstasy  ? 

Here  blessings  fall  about  our  feet, 
Boughs,  flame-lit,  bear  our  thoughts  on  high ; 
Odors  and  memories  mingle  sweet 
Where  Love  hath  wandered  by. 

And  they,  who  still  would  search,  still  far 
And  farther  oftentimes  mus~t  go ; 
Only  the  voyager  to  one  star 
The  guiding  light  can  know. 

Peace  is  not  here,  she  is  not  there ; 
She  dwells  with  them  who  seek  her  not. 
Dear  love,  stay  we  at  home,  for  fear 
We  miss  her  haunted  spot. 


ROS   SOLIS.  115 


ROS   SOLIS. 

"  Paracelsus  says  that  the  herb  called  Ros  Softs  is,  at  noon  and  under 
a  burning  sun,  filled  with  dew,  while  the  other  herbs  around  it  are  dry." 
—  BACON. 


lowly  herb! 
The  lesson  thou  canst  teach  my  heart  would 

learn, 

For  the  road  is  hot, 
The  centre  of  my  being  a  dry  spot  ! 
I  hurry  and  I  burn, 

Till  by  the  wayside  here  I  thee  discern, 
Where  thou  dost  hold  and  gather  in  the  curb 
Of  thy  strong  breast 
One  cool,  sweet  drop, 
While  I  am  so  opprest. 

On  my  knees  I  pause 
To  watch  thee  cherishing  the  dew  that  fell 
In  the  still  hour  when  Heaven  blest  Earth 
With  her  cool  kiss. 


Il6  ROS   SOLIS. 

In  that  one  hour  of  bliss 

Behold  a  sacred  birth  ! 

What  voice  can  tell 

Thy  tender  history, 

Nor  wherewithal  thou  feed'st  this  mystery, 

Thy  spirit's  prop  ? 

Show  me  thy  laws  ! 

Was  gladness  but  a  toy 

Broken  with  tears  and  cast  away  ? 

Or  is  this  well  a  token  of  thy  joy, 

A  coolness  in  the  heat, 

A  resting-place  for  weary  feet, 

A  song  for  those  who  cannot  sing 

But  turn,  as  thou  hast  done, 

Even  in  the  burning  sun, 

The  sorrow  of  a  day 

Into  a  grace  no  joyous  dawn  can  bring ! 


SACRED   PLACES. 


SACRED   PLACES. 

*'  There  are  four  places  which  the  believing  man  should  visit  with 
feelings  of  reverence  and  awe."  —  ORIENTAL  BOOKS. 

'"THHE  Blessed  One  hath  whispered:  There  are  four 

Places  most  sacred  to  believing  hearts  : 
First,  where  the  mother's  love  her  Man-child  bore, 
And  watched  his  little  ways  and  childish  arts. 

And  one,  the  second,  where  the  Man-child  rose 
To  know  the  Holy  Spirit  dwells  within 
This  casement  of  the  body,  and  he  chose 
To  hold  his  breathing  temple  free  from  sin. 

The  third,  perchance  a  narrow  plot,  whereon 
The  Man-child  stood  and  served  his  fellow-men, 
And  loved  the  service  better  than  a  throne, 
And  where  the  suffering  world  loved  him  again. 

Another,  and  the  fourth,  a  spot  how  fair ! 
Wherefrom  the  dear  one  vanished ;  there  the  leaves 
Lie  thick  and  cover  much,  but  the  bright  air 
Forever  tells  't  is  only  earth  that  grieves. 


Il8  KYPRIS. 


KYPRIS. 

"  O  Kypris,  daughter  of  Dione,  from  mortal  to  immortal,  so  men  tell, 
thou  hast  changed  Berenice,  dropping  softly  into  the  woman's  breast 
the  stuff  of  immortality."  —  THEOCRITUS. 

T  T  THAT  hast  thou  done,  Kypris  ? 

Thou  hast  pressed  thy  lip  against  the  cheek 
Of  that  girl  sleeping  ! 
Didst  thou  think,  when  creeping 
To  her  fair  side,  of  what  thy  fatal  kiss 
Could  do  to  that  fair  creature  ? 
Didst  thou  wreak 
Thy  antique  vengeance  on  her, 
Thus  to  review 

The  shadows  and  the  sorrow  Ilium  knew  ? 
She  was  so  fair  a  being,  and  she  wore 
Her  mortal  sweetness  with  such  girlish  grace 
As  when  the  slender  birch  in  early  spring, 
Or  the  June  rose  in  her  brief  flowering, 
We  see  and  stand  in  silence  for  a  space. 


KYPRIS.  119 

And,  now  this  loveliness  hath  changed  her  feature, 

The  same  no  more  ! 

Nor  time  nor  space 

Hold  her  in  thrall. 

Now,  gazing  on  the  temples  of  the  sky, 

She  wanders,  lost  in  thought  above, 

This  little  earth  (our  all), 

Dowered  with  love, 

Born  into  joy  of  immortality. 

What  hast  thou  done,  O  Kypris  ! 

"  A  mere  kiss," 

Thou  sayest.     Yes ! 


120  TO   THE   CHILDREN. 


TO   THE   CHILDREN. 

TTUNTERS  ever  shall  ye  be, 

Seeking  what  ye  cannot  see,' 
Over  hill  and  over  dale, 
Through  the  deepest,  greenest  vale  ; 
Sure  some  treasure  will  be  found 
Fairer  than  of  common  ground. 

Fear  no  wave  where  thou  must  cross, 
Fear  no  path  of  grief  or  loss  : 
Through  the  mist  and  through  the  dark 
Comes  the  dawn  and  sings  the  lark ; 
Thus  alone  ye  seek  and  find 
Heaven  that  never  lies  behind. 


MORTALITY.  1 2 1 


MORTALITY. 

npHERE  is  one  cup  earth's  children  all  may  drink; 
One  instant  full  of  joy !    He  seized  and  drank ; 
When  suddenly,  as  vessels  full-sailed  sink, 
Struck  by  the  storm,  even  thus  the  goblet  sank 
Out  of  his  keeping,  and  he  backward  sank 
Into  the  desert,  like  to  die  athirst, 
Though  longing  still  to  hear  the  music  burst 
From  other  lips,  of  joy  to  him  a  blank. 

He  was  alone  !     His  solitary  cry 
Returned  to  him  !     All  voices  else  were  still ; 
But  through  the  silence  of  the  summer  sky 
There  fell  the  calmness  of  eternity,  — 
There  fell  the  little  leaves  that  drop  and  die 
And  hide  from  sight  all  sign  of  mortal  ill. 


122  PERMANENCE. 


PERMANENCE. 

"The  beautiful  shall  be  made  permanent." 

KIRKE  WHITE, 

VX7HITHER,  sweet  days? 
Whither,  O  Summer? 
Whither,  O  waning  moon  ? 
And  thou,  dear  life,  beloved  one, 
Whither  art  thou  gone  ? 
Not  to  oblivion  ! 
No  winged  comer, 
Wending  his  skyey  ways, 
And  flown,  how  soon  ! 
Hath  vanished  utterly , 
Something  of  Mother  Earth, 
Something  of  memory, 
Causeth  new  birth. 

Ever  undying  we  pass  ; 

And  what  man  is, 

So  shall  he  live  though  faded  with  the  grass 

If  his  aim  he  miss, 


PERMANENCE.  123 

And  pass  unknown  —  half  seen  — 

Through  time's  dark  screen, 

Whatever  there  may  be 

Of  winged  life  in  his  endeavor, 

This  shall  be  his ; 

So  dowered  shall  he  rise, 

Thus  painted  on  the  forehead  of  the  skies. 


124  THE   WARDER. 


THE  WARDER. 

TO   I.    S. 

T  TALF  faint  with  toil  from  morn  to  set  of  sun, 

I  watched  the  shadows  creep 
Up  with  slow  footstep,  when  the  day  was  done, 
Toward  my  encastled  steep. 

The  palace  gleamed  upon  my  dazzled  sight ; 

My  heritage  was  fair ; 
That  night  I  dreamed  my  feet  were  mounting  light 

Over  the  golden  stair. 

Once  more  I  heard  the  voice  of  waters  low, 

By  perfumed  breezes  fed  ; 
Methought  I  followed  a  grand  leader,  slow 

Through  marble  galleries  led. 

Then  sad  I  wakened  in  the  vale,  but  found 

My  guide  still  drew  me  on ; 
Her  name  was  Charity,  her  voice  a  sound 

Of  pure  compassion. 


THE    WARDER.  125 

Ascend,"  she  said,  "  to  thy  fair  palace  towers ; 

Share  thou  their  plenitude  ! 
Thus  shalt  thou  gather  with  thy  growing  powers 

Joy  to  infinitude. 

Self  whispered  suddenly,  Where,  then,  thy  home  ? 

What  haunt,  what  mansion  wide  ? 
What  refuge  after  toil  in  which  to  roam 

Where  silence  may  abide  ? 

My  guide  made  answer:  "  Rest  is  not  for  thee 

While  human  hearts  must  weep  : 
Go  east,  go  west,  in  blessing  be  thou  blest, 

Thus  thine  own  heart  shall  sleep." 

Once  more  the  palace  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 

Estrangement  made  it  fair ; 
That  night  I  dreamed  my  feet  were  mounting  light 

Over  the  golden  stair. 


126         ON   THE   DEATH   OF   A   YOUNG   GIRL. 


ON  THE  DEATH   OF  A  YOUNG  GIRL. 

TRANSLATION  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  PARNY. 

OHE  leaped  out  of  infancy's  arm 

Running  over  with  innocent  charm, 
And  wearing  the  features  of  love. 
Spared  days  or  but  hours  from  her  doom, 
This  heart,  pure  as  blue  skies  above, 
Had  ripened  to  fragrance  and  bloom  ; 
But  Heaven  had  destined  for  death 
The  allurements  of  this  gentle  breath, 
And  Heaven  her  life  doth  now  keep 
Who  sweetly  hath  fallen  on  sleep, 
Nor  murmured  against  the  All-Good. 
Even  so  a  smile  is  effaced ; 
So  dies,  nor  can  ever  be  traced, 
The  song  of  a  bird  in  the  wood. 


T 


THE   PASSING   OF   TENNYSON.  127 


THE   PASSING   OF   TENNYSON. 

OCTOBER,  1892. 
In  the  season  of  the  waning  moon. 

HE  king  of  song  is  dying  while  the  moon 


Sinks  pale  into  illimitable  space, 
And  the  great  Dawn  stretches  her  golden  wings 
Once  more  about  the  world,  as  when  Love  cries, 
:  Be  comforted,  thy  heart  shall  no  more  fret." 

Another  day  !  the  forehead  of  the  dawn 
Wears  yet  the  crescent  of  the  failing  moon, 
And  the  dark  figure  of  the  shaded  whole 
Rests,  ghost-like,  fainting  on  the  slender  horns. 
Stay  with  us,  O  thou  ghost !  for  thou  hast  seen 
His  spirit  on  the  wing,  and  while  thou  stayest 
We  cannot  quite  forget  to  question  thee 
Of  the  great  singer  in  his  happier  sphere. 

Again  the  day  !  again  the  splendid  east ! 
The  crescent  and  the  star  and  the  dim  dawn 
Conspire  in  silence  ;  and  withdraw  them  hence 
Into  his  unseen  land  where  none  may  die. 


128  COMATAS. 


COMATAS. 

"  And  he  shall  sing  how,  once  upon  a  time,  the  great  chest  prisoned 
the  living  goatherd  by  his  lord's  infatuate  and  evil  will,  and  how  the 
blunt-faced  bees,  as  they  came  up  from  the  meadow  to  the  fragrant 
cedar-chest,  fed  him  with  food  of  tender  flowers  because  the  Muse  still 
dropped  sweet  nectar  on  his  lips."  —  THEOCRITUS. 

T    YING  in  thy  cedarn  chest, 

Didst  thou  think  thy  singing  done, 
Comatas  ?  and  thyself  unblest 
Prisoned  there  from  sun  to  sun  ? 

Through  the  fields  thy  blunt-faced  bees 
Sought  thy  flowers  far  and  away, 

And  gathered  honey  from  thy  trees, 
Thou  a  prisoner  night  and  day. 

Heavy,  then,  with  honeyed  store, 

Seeking  west  and  seeking  east, 
Thee,  whose  absence  they  deplore, 

Late  they  found  and  brought  their  feast. 


COMATAS.  129 

Grief  no  more  shall  still  thy  song, 

Loss,  privation,  fortune  dire  ! 
Servants  of  air  around  thee  throng 

And  touch  thy  singing  lips  with  fire. 


Love,  art  thou  discomforted 
In  thy  narrow  lot  to  lie  ? 

See  !  divinely  thou  art  fed 
By  the  creatures  of  the  sky  ! 


130  A    FALLING    STAR. 


A  FALLING    STAR. 

T)  EH  OLD,  she  said,  a  falling  star  ! 
I  followed  where  her  vision  led, 
And  saw  no  meteor  near  or  far, 
So  swiftly  sank  the  lustre  dead. 

In  silvery  moonlight  stood  she  there, 
Whiter  than  silver  gleamed  her  hand, 
And  gleaming  shone  her  yellow  hair, 
While  dusky  shadows  filled  the  land. 

She  seemed  a  slender  flickering  shape, 
Framed  in  the  blackness  of  the  porch : 
How  should  a  child  of  night  escape, 
A  foolish  moth  that  loves  the  torch ! 

Out  of  my  dusk  I  came  to  her ; 
Voices  were  stilled  anear,  afar  ; 
I  stood  there  lost,  her  worshiper: 
She  only  saw  the  falling  star. 


THE   POET'S    HOUSE.  131 


THE  POET'S  HOUSE. 

"  For  lamentation  may  not  be  in  a  poet's  house.  Such  things  befit 
not  us."  —  SAPPHO. 

"  Ye  shall  have  a  song,  as  in  the  night  when  a  holy  solemnity  is  kept, 
and  gladness  of  heart  as  when  one  goeth  with  a  hope  into  the  mountain 
of  the  Lord."  —  ISAIAH. 

T)ESIDE  the  Indian  seas, 
Hid  in  a  sloping  vale, 
Candulla  dwelt,  a  maid, 
White  as  a  wandering  sail 
That  yields  now  to  the  breeze, 
Now  poises,  unafraid. 

The  yellow  primrose  stands 

Thus  at  the  hour  of  even, 

And  thus  to  raise  her  hands 

Seems  in  the  face  of  heaven ; 

And  so  uplifts  her  eye 

When  the  night  of  love  draws  nigh. 


132  THE  POET'S  HOUSE. 

Candulla  rose  and  passed 

Pure  to  her  lover's  home, 

A  poet's  perfect  flower 

Into  his  garden  come; 

But  the  blossoming  day  was  the  last, 

She  faded  there  in  the  bower ;  — 

And  the  poet  stood  alone  ! 
There  was  silence  on  the  stair, 
There  was  stillness  in  the  hall, 
There  was  absence  everywhere  ! 
The  summer  of  life  was  done, 
She  had  vanished,  his  love,  his  all. 

He  saw  her  glimmering  dress 
Wave  where  the  breezes  blew, 
And  where  the  lilies  shone 
Her  flying  feet  he  knew; 
And  hers  was  all  the  loveliness, 
The  music  hers  alone. 

Therefore  the  poet  said  : 
"  Stand  open,  O  my  door  ! 
And  bid  the  sun  illume 
Thy  sorrow-darkened  floor ; 


THE  POET'S  HOUSE.  133 

Bring  garlands  for  the  maid  ; 
The  song  of  life  resume." 

A  sound  of  gladness  and  song 
Came  from  his  opened  door, 
As  of  one  who  journeys  in  hope 
Where  love  has  traveled  before, 
And  rejoices  and  is  strong 
In  his  joy  forevermore. 

Voices  solemn  and  sweet, 

Children  laughing  and  gay, 

Light  and  purpose  of  life, 

Dawn  and  falling  of  May; 

The  garland  of  day  replete 

With  flowers  that  cover  the  strife,  — 

Such  is  the  poet's  home  ! 

Open  the  doors  to  the  sun, 

Gladness  and  glory  and  song, 

Till  the  day  of  travel  be  done, 

And  the  day  of  the  Lord  be  come ! 

Garlands  and  song  to  the  children  of  love  belong. 


134  TO  ,    SLEEPING. 


TO   ,  SLEEPING. 

1T>ELOVED,  when  I  saw  thee  sleeping  there, 

And  watched  the  tender  curving  of  thy  mouth, 
The  cheek,  our  home  of  kisses,  the  soft  hair, 
And  over  all  a  languor  of  the  south  ; 
And  marked  thy  house  of  thought,  thy  forehead,  where 
All  trouble  of  the  earth  was  then  at  rest ; 
And  thy  dear  eyes,  a  blessing  to  the  blest, 
Their  ivory  gates  closed  on  this  world  of  care,  — 

Then,  then  I  prayed  that  never  wrong  of  mine, 
That  never  pain  which  haunts  these  earth-built  bow 
ers, 

If  I  could  hinder,  or  could  aught  relieve, 
Should  ever  more  make  sad  this  heart  of  thine; 
And  yet,  dear  love,  how  oft  thou  leav'st  thy  flowers, 
Here  in  the  rain  to  walk  with  me  and  grieve  ! 


THE   MYSTERIES    OF    ELEUSIS.  135 


THE   MYSTERIES  OF   ELEUSIS. 

OLOWLY,  with  day's  dying  fall, 

And  with  many  a  solemn  sound, 
Slowly  from  the  Athenian  wall 
The  long  procession  wound. 

Five  days  of  the  mystic  nine, 
Clad  in  solemn  thought,  were  passed, 
Ere  the  few  could  drink  the  wine 
Or  seek  the  height  at  last. 

Then  the  chosen,  young  and  old, 
To  Eleusis  went  their  ways  ; 
But  no  lip  the  tale  has  told 
Of  those  mysterious  days. 

In  the  seer's  hollow  eye, 
In  the  maiden's  faithful  soul, 
In  youth  who  did  not  fear  to  die, 
Men  saw  that  strange  control. 


136  THE    MYSTERIES    OF    ELEUSIS. 

Yet  no  voice  the  dreadful  word, 
Through  these  centuries  of  man, 
Has  made  the  sacred  secret  heard, 
Or  showed  the  hidden  plan. 

All  the  horrors  born  of  death 
Rose  within  that  nine  days'  gloom, 
Chasing  forms  of  mortal  breath 
From  awful  room  to  room. 

Deep  through  bowels  of  the  earth 
Fled  those  seekers  of  the  dark, 
Hearts  that  sought  to  find  the  birth 
Of  man's  immortal  spark. 

In  that  moment  of  despair 
Was  revealed  .  .  .  But  who  may  tell 
How  the  Omnipotent  declares 
His  truth  that  all  is  well  ? 

Saw  they  forms  of  their  own  lost  ? 
Heard  they  voices  that  have  fled  ? 
We  know  not,  or  know  at  most 
Their  joy  was  no  more  dead. 


THE    MYSTERIES    OF    ELEUSIS.  137 

Light  of  resurrection  gleamed, 
In  what  shape  we  cannot  hear  ; 
Glory  shone  of  the  redeemed 
Beyond  this  world  of  fear. 

Old  books  say  Demeter  came 
And  smiled  upon  them,  and  her  smile 
Burned  all  their  sorrow  in  its  flame, 
Yet  left  them  here  awhile. 

Mother  of  the  shadowed  sphere, 
Where  we  dwell  and  suffer  now, 
Lo !  the  initiate  days  are  here, 
Bright  is  thy  dawn-lit  brow. 


138       REVERY    OF    ROSAMOND    IN    HER    BOWER. 


REVERY  OF  ROSAMOND  IN  HER  BOWER. 

DEDICATED   TO   W.   J.    W.,   AFTER   HIS    SINGING. 

npHERE  came  strange  days  of  idlesse,  when  she 
-*•      said : 

"  I  will  recall  my  rose-days  overblown, 
The  glad,  bright  sweetness,  now  forever  flown, 
That  make   a  queen   still  queen  though   she   were 
dead. 

"  One  was  at  evening,  when  I  heard  a  voice 
Singing  of  love,  of  victory,  of  death, 
And  all  were  one  ;  the  same  delicious  breath 
Sang  victory,  love,  and  death,  nor  made  a  choice. 

"  And  now  I  dwell  within  a  mystic  world 
Where  his  voice  follows  me  from  dawn  to  night ; 
High  in  my  bower  imprisoned  I  watch  the  light 
That  ever  seems  in  wings  of  music  furled. 


REVERY   OF    ROSAMOND    IN    HER    BOWER.       139 

"  And  when  I  try  to  tell  what  else  may  be 
Of  joy  for  me  in  memory,  still  I  hear 
The  singer,  nor  for  love  nor  death  appear 
Nor  victory,  his  choice  ;  he  sang  of  three. 

"  O  singer,  still  thou  singest  to  my  heart ! 
And  love  and  death  are  now  to  me  as  one 
Great  song  forever ;  surely  thou  hast  won 
Indeed  a  victory,  for  they  cannot  part !  " 


140  c.  T. 


C.  T. 

T)E  LOVED,  on  the  shore  of  this  gray  world 

Thy  little  bird,  the  sandpiper,  and  I 
Now  stand  alone ; 
And  when  mine  eye 

Returned  from  following  thy  upward  flight, 
And  found  him  here,  and  heard  his  tone, 
And  saw  the  tiny  wing  unfurled, 
(As  oft  for  thee,) 
I  knew  thy  messenger,  —  't  was  he  ! 

His  little  cry 

Is  meek  and  full  of  joy  in  things  that  lie 

Close  to  our  feet ; 

He  speeds  along  the  sands,  bidding  my  sight 

Grow  keen  as  thine. 

He  cries,  "  O  love  complete, 

Thou  hast  become  the  leaf  and  flower 

That  whisper  now  companionship  ; 

Oh  follow,  follow, 

Traveller  mine  ! 


C.    T.  141 

Thou,  too,  shalt  slip 

Into  the  hand's-breadth  hollow 

Thy  dust  shall  claim  ! 

And  no  fair  fame 

Shall  stead  thee  when  the  winds  of  life  shall  fall ; 

Only  my  call 

To  the  unknown,  untried,  whither  these  wings 

Now  vanish  :  the  fading  bower 

Can  hold  and  soothe  thee  not ! 

Oh  follow,  follow, 

'T  is  Love  who  sings  ! 

Love,  Love  is  here  and  beckons  thee  away ; 

My  song  leads  on,  thou  canst  not  go  astray ! 


142  THE   CORONAL. 


THE   CORONAL. 

"  The  only  prize  given  to  the  conqueror  was  a  garland  of  wild  olive." 
—  HISTORY  OF  GREECE. 


the  wild  olive,  twine! 

And  hasten,  maidens,  while  the  dayspring  calls, 
For  when  the  sun  is  high 
The  leaflet  droops  and  falls. 

Now  the  dark  hollow  seek, 

And  hide  the  finished  wreath  in  green  recess, 

And  droop  not,  olive  leaves, 
Nor  lose  your  comeliness. 

Hear  ye  a  people's  feet 

Come  trampling  up  the  steep  of  Athens'  hill  ? 

They  bear  a  sacred  gift  ; 
At  last  the  air  is  still. 

Behold  the  white-robed  band, 

Holding  the  mightiest  tribute  Greece  can  give,  — 

A  little  fading  wreath  ! 
The  deed  with  Zeus  shall  live. 


THE   CORONAL.  143 

What  needs  he  other  gift, 

The  hero,  with  his  living  torch  aflame, 

Held  high  until  the  hour 
The  godhead  gild  his  name  ! 

No  dusty  sign  for  him, 

No  flaunting  pile  to  quicken  Fortune's  wheel ! 

Only  Demeter's  leaf 
And  tears  that  downward  steal. 

Haste  !  haste  !  bring  olive ! 

A  people's  tribute  for  the  people's  hour ! 

The  gods  themselves  decree 
To  give  the  immortal  dower. 


144  THE  TRAVELER. 


THE   TRAVELER. 

SORROW  !  thou  that  cuttest  down  the  plant 

Of  this  world's  promise  close  to  the  very  root, 
Give  us,  for  lo  thou  canst !  the  thing  we  want,  — 
Courage,  and  power  above  death's  mark  to  shoot. 

Come,  Sorrow  !  put  thy  sweet  arms  round  my  neck, 
For  none  are  left  to  do  this,  only  thou ; 
And  thou  alone  canst  help  this  chain  to  break 
Which  binds  and  will  not  let  me  lift  my  brow ! 

Thou  hast  unveiled  to  me  an  hour  to  come,  — 
How  near,  how  far,  thou  wouldst  not  have  me  know,  — 
An  hour  of  dawn !  but  first  these  feet  must  roam, 
And  cross  yon  mountain-tops  grown  white  with  snow. 


MASK  OF  AN  UNKNOWN  WOMAN'S  FACE.        145 


UPON   A   MASK   OF   AN   UNKNOWN 
WOMAN'S    FACE. 

"  L'amor  che  mi  fa  bella.' 

PARADISO. 

"\  T  7HO  is  she  ?    The  air  replies 

What  know  we  of  name  or  fame  ? 
Born  out  of  the  unknown  skies 
This  fair  being  came ; 
But  the  features  of  her  face, 
Where  the  living  story  stands, 
Tell  of  no  far-distant  lands, 
No  faery  dwelling-place. 
Other  beauty  earth  shall  see 
Coming,  going  with  the  hour, 
Other  light  shall  burn  and  be 
Star  of  home  and  dower ; 
But  when  spring-time's  joy  is  done, 
When  the  waves  their  secret  keep, 
When,  the  battle  lost  or  won, 
We  have  passed  in  sleep, 


146      MASK    OF   AN    UNKNOWN    WOMAN'S    FACE. 

Still  thy  face,  O  tender  soul ! 

Shall  wear  the  love  of  those  who  weep, 

Wear  the  peace  that  fills  the  whole 

Of  the  boundless  deep. 

Of  thy  heart  we  need  not  ask, 

Wert  thou  joyous  ?  wert  thou  sad  ? 

White  and  still  beneath  this  mask, 

Spirit  of  life  !  thy  heart  is  glad. 


"STILL   IN   THY   LOVE    I    TRUST." 

OTILL  in  thy  love  I  trust, 

Supreme    o'er    death,  since    deathless    is    thy 

essence ; 

For,  putting  off  the  dust, 
Thou  hast  but  blest  me  with  a  nearer  presence. 


And  so,  for  this,  for  all, 

I  breathe  no  selfish  plaint,  no  faithless  chiding, 

On  me  the  snowflakes  fall, 

But  thou  hast  gained  a  summer  all-abiding. 

Striking  a  plaintive  string, 

Like  some  poor  harper  at  a  palace  portal, 

I  wait  without  and  sing, 

While  those  I  love  glide  in  and  dwell  immortal. 


148  THE    RIVER   CHARLES. 


THE    RIVER   CHARLES. 

T)ESIDE  thee,  O  my  river,  where  I  wait 

Through  vista  long  of  years  and  drink  my  fill 
Of  beauty  and  of  light,  a  steady  rill 
Of  never-failing  good,  whate'er  my  state,  — 


How  speechless  seem  these  lips,  my  soul  how  dull, 
Never  to  say,  nor  half  to  say,  how  dear 
The  washing  of  thy  ripples,  nor  the  full 
And  silent  flow  which  speaks  not  to  the  ear ! 

Thou  hast  been  unto  me  a  gracious  nurse, 

Telling  me  many  a  tale  in  listening  hours 

Of  those  who  praised  thee  with  their  ripening  powers, 

Our  elder  poets,  nourished  at  thy  source. 

O  happy  Cambridge  meadows !  where  now  rest 

Forever  the  proud  memories  of  their  lives ; 

O  happy  Cambridge  air  !  forever  blest 

With  deathless  song  the  bee  of  time  still  hives  ;  — 


THE    RIVER    CHARLES.  149 

And  farther  on,  where  many  a  wildflower  blooms 
Through  a  fair  Sunday  up  and  down  thy  banks, 
Beautiful  with  thy  blossoms,  ranks  on  ranks, 
What  vanished  eyes  have  sought  thy  dewy  rooms  ! 

I,  too,  have  known  thee,  rushing,  bright  with  foam, 
Or  sleeping  idly,  even  as  thou  dost  now, 
Reflecting  every  wall  and  tower  and  dome, 
And  every  vessel,  clear  from  stern  to  prow. 

Or  in  the  moonlight,  when  the  night  is  pale, 
And  the  great  city  is  still,  and  only  thou 
Givest  me  sign  of  life,  and  on  thy  brow 
A  beauty  evanescent,  flitting,  frail ! 

O  river  !  ever  drifting  toward  the  sea, 
How  common  is  thy  fate  !  thus  purposeless 
To  drift  away,  nor  think  what  't  is  to  be, 
And  sink  in  the  vast  wave  of  nothingness. 

But  ever  to  love's  life  a  second  life 

Is  given,  and  his  narrow  river  of  days 

Shall  flow  through  other  lives,  and  sleep  in  bays 

Of  quiet  thought  and  calm  the  heart  at  strife. 


150  THE   RIVER   CHARLES. 

Fortunate  river !  that  through  the  poet's  thought 
Hast  run  and  washed  life's  burden  from  his  sight ; 
O  happy  river !  thou  his  song  hast  brought, 
And  thou  shalt  live  in  poetry  and  light. 


FLAMMANTIS   MCENIA   MUNDI.  15: 


FLAMMANTIS    MCENIA  MUNDI. 

T   STOOD  alone  in  purple  space  and  saw 

The  burning  walls  of  the  world,  like  wings  of 

flame, 

Circling  the  sphere  :  there  was  no  break  nor  flaw 
In  those  vast  airy  battlements  whence  came 
The  spirits  who  had  done  with  time  and  fame 
And  all  the  playthings  of  earth's  little  hour ; 
I  saw  them  each,  I  knew  them  for  the  same, 
Mothers  and  brothers  and  the  sons  of  power. 

Yet  were  they  changed ;  the  flaming  walls  had  burned 

Their  perishable  selves,  and  there  remained 

Only  the  pure  white  vision  of  the  soul, 

The  mortal  part  consumed,  and  swift  returned 

Ashes  to  ashes ;  while  unscathed,  unstained, 

The  immortal  passed  beyond  the  earth's  control. 


J 


152        "A   THOUSAND   YEARS    IN    THY   SIGHT.' 


"A    THOUSAND    YEARS    IN    THY    SIGHT 
ARE   BUT    AS    ONE   DAY." 

"IV  TEITHER  joy  nor  sorrow  move 
•*•  ^     The  figure  at  the  feet  of  Love ; 
Light  of  breathing  life  is  she, 
Spirit  of  immortality. 

Lead  me  up  thy  stony  stair, 
O  Spirit,  into  thy  great  air ! 
For  his  day  of  pain  and  tears 
Is  to  man  a  thousand  years. 


DEATH,    WHO   ART   THOU?  153 


DEATH,  WHO  ART   THOU? 

*T^HUS  questioned  they  who  watched  the  ^Egean 
-*•       Sea 

Stretch  up  white  arms  to  drag  the  diver  down, 
And  they  who  waked  to  find  Thermopylae 
Scarlet  and  white  with  glory  overblown. 

Tears  dropped,  even  then,  in  that  far  early  world,  — 
Dropped  on  the  soft  face  of  the  fresh-turned  earth ; 

And  curses  gathered  by  despair  were  hurled 
By  mortal  sorrow  in  her  primal  birth. 

But  the  young  runner  grasped  his  wreath  and  died  ; 

Antinous  loved  and  plunged  him  in  the  deep ; 
The    goal    attained,  —  world's     glory    and    world's 
pride,  — 

Life  held  no  more,  they  said,  and  sank  to  sleep. 

Death,  thou  wert   laurel   and  crown  in  that  young 

dawn ; 
Happy  the  heroes  in  thy  dusky  fields 


154  DEATH,    WHO   ART   THOU? 

With  double  flute  and  forms  in  ghostly  lawn 
Dancing,  or  bearing  calm  their  shadowy  shields. 


Ages  rolled  on,  a  mighty  Teacher  came  ; 

The  words  He  spake  were  spirit  and  were  life ; 
The  hearts  of  men  kindled  and  were  aflame ; 

Sudden  he  vanished,  leaving  them  at  strife. 

Yet  He  had  said  :  "  The  things  that  now  I  know 
The  world  knows  not ;  hereafter  this  shall  be ; 

Proof  of  my  love  and  faith,  behold  I  go 
Fearless  away,  whither  men  cannot  see." 

Then  in  the  dark  they  questioned  yet  again 
After  his  light  went  out :  "  Behold  the  pit ! 

Thither  the  Master  went  through  blood  and  pain 
Into  the  silence.     Let  us  worship  it !  " 

Yet  ever  through  the  darkness  came  one  ray, 
The  Master's  birth-star  glimmering  in  the  east ; 

And  they  who  watched,  they  also  learned  to  pray 
For  clearer  vision  and  for  light  increased. 


DEATH,  WHO  ART  THOU?        155 

Again  the  ages  pass,  and'  still  they  find 
On  woodland  pathways  lovers  two  by  two, 

Held  by  the  ties  which  mortal  creatures  bind 
To  last  forever,  ever  seeming  new. 

Yet  autumns  must  return,  and  leave  beside 

The  dying  embers  one  who  sits  alone, 
Crying,  "  Oh,  where  ?     What  planet  calls  thy  tide 

While  I  remain  to  know  the  summer  done  ?  " 

"  Still  am  I  here,"  Love  answers ;  "  time  is  short 
And  life  is  endless,  and  the  spirit  mounts  ! 

The  little  good  I  strove  for,  and  what  wrought, 
Was  but  a  child's  task  that  the  man  recounts. 

"  You  question  what  is  death  ?  Behold  the  tide 
That  bore  me  swiftly  from  you  hither  brought 

All  but  the  frail  frame  in  the  earth's  green  side, 
And  quickens  in  the  flow  the  living  thought. 

"  And  I  would  tell  thee  more  "  —     Then  stillness  fell 
Abroad  upon  the  earth  ;  voice  there  was  none. 

Alas  !  the  voice  of  Love  can  no  more  tell ! 

But  Death  will  show  that  Love  and  he  are  one. 


The  Publishers  of  Harper's  Magazine \  of  the  Century 
Magazine, of  Scribner's  Magazine,  and  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
have  kindly  allowed  the  republication  in  this  volume  of  such 
poems  as  have  been  printed  in  their  pages. 


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